


Heart On His Sleeve

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Awkward Boners, Childhood Friends, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Eventual Smut, Feeling B era, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Secret Crush, Sexual Inexperience, Sleepy Cuddles, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Flake's feelings unearth themselves after one night of drunken cuddling with Paul. He has no choice but to try and keep the nature of his crush a secret. Despite his attempts, it seems to come to light regardless. He always had been an open book.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz
Comments: 71
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place [around 1983](https://66.media.tumblr.com/79494c40ceb7eb7fabcdb13523884114/e8e0ef51f0329401-63/s1280x1920/aaaee8b6860293daaa7cc8ff69f5d878f1eae623.jpg), when [Flake was 16](https://66.media.tumblr.com/153efe3794d4ef1ad625f762bf164765/bed29bf202fc19fc-01/s540x810/4e7cf1093c199d3eace11109e4acee525147ac00.jpg) and [Paul was 18](https://66.media.tumblr.com/29b70ef0eac3d9656c5e417b9c8a7860/bed29bf202fc19fc-8f/s400x600/bb44d7582456d9db66d87be81fd22be5180857f8.jpg).

The mirror is horrifically unwashed. Dusty and covered in water spots. Flake soaks his hand and reaches out to wipe it across its surface. Then, he snatches up the hand towel hung nearby (which certainly hasn’t been washed in months) and scrubs it off. Streaks of water are left behind, but it’s better than what it had been. Flake sees his young, boyish face in the watery reflection. He stares at himself, blankly.

His eyes are a striking blue. Probably the most appealing feature of his entire body.

He frowns. Hate roils inside of him, cataloguing the traits of himself.

Before he could really drown in the self-hatred, he quickly fixes his hair, checks to make sure there’s nothing in his teeth, tests his breath, and then steps out of the cramped bathroom. Flake nervously adjusts the rolled up sleeves of the white button-up he wore, before pulling on the ends of his black vest. It’s unpleasant feeling like he doesn’t even fit in his own skin.

He crosses his arms, frowning to himself, and steps back into the cluttered “living room” (if it could even be called that) to see Paul, Aljoscha, and Knolli seated together—as he left them. Knolli is laying back against the coffee table, pillows stacked behind him. Aljoscha is pouring himself some more drink while Paul loudly talks, blatant in the way he wants to be heard. He’s gesturing broadly and glancing between Knolli and Aljoscha, a beer bottle clutched in one hand.

Flopping down into his previously abandoned spot on the couch opposite of Paul and Aljoscha, Flake reaches out to grab his half-empty beer. Bringing it to his lips, he tilts his head back to down the remainder of it—the taste is strong and bitter. He refocuses on the conversation, training his gaze on Paul. Paul glances at him, gray-ish blue eyes lighting up at his return. Flake’s stomach tingles. Paul doesn’t even pause in his monologue. Flake realizes he’s talking about a woman he met at the beach.

“She went on to say ‘you know’—” Paul changes his pitch of voice to something more feminine, “’You look like my nephew! And he’s such a pothead! You don’t have any pot, do you? You seem like the type. I don’t understand all the excitement about it. I tried it once, with my ex-husband, but it only made me sleepy!’”

Paul’s shrill voice is obviously amusing to Knolli; he’s cracking up, while Aljoscha is smirking in that smirky way of his. Paul is grinning broadly now, his smile wide and accentuating his laugh lines, his crow’s feet. He giggles, slightly slurring his words as he goes on to say with a point of a finger from the hand clutching his beer bottle, “And I was a bit stunned. This topless woman just came up to me to tell me I look like a stoner, out of nowhere!”

Aljoscha’s snake-like smirk evolves into a grin, while Knolli is laughing deep from his gut. Paul giggles again and takes a drink of his beer, before continuing with a glance towards Flake, who’s sitting with crossed legs and a neutral expression.

“I told her that, essentially. I was confused why the hell she felt so inclined to express that to me. I was looking for seashells. Just minding my own business. She said I ‘looked approachable’.”

“You do,” Flake chimes in quietly, finally thawing himself enough to get up and grab another bottle of beer from the cooler. Paul scoffs and throws his hand up while he looks at Flake, protesting, “Please! It’s the face. It’s misleading.”

Smiling, Flake drops back onto the couch and leans forward to grab a knife with a broken tip from the cluttered coffee table. He uses it pry off the cap of the bottle. Aljoscha cackles and adds, “I have to agree with Flake. You look like you just crawled out of mommy’s vagina.”

Paul throws a mock insulted expression towards Aljoscha. Aljoscha bats his eyelashes at him sarcastically and then proceeds to throw back his drink like a shot. Paul’s offended expression melts into an easy-going smile and then he giggles again—he already seems drunk, or at the very least, buzzed. Shaking his head, he brings his hand up to grind his thumb into his eyes as he mumbles, “One time Nikki said it’s like she’s screwing a fifteen year old.”

Now that has Aljoscha falling back against the couch and hyena-laughing. Flake feels something gross and queasy twist around in his gut. He takes a long drink of his bitter beer to mask it. Knolli pipes up and cracks another joke that has the other two laughing, but Flake doesn’t hear it. He blocks it out, chooses to withdraw into the pit of his mind. He stares distantly at the label of his beer bottle. His cheeks feel hot, his heart tight in his chest.

He hasn’t eaten for a while, his stomach a void vulnerable to the effects of the alcohol. His head is already buzzing and it only worsens after he more or less chugs the remainder of the bottle in his hands. He distantly hears Aljoscha’s jeering and Paul’s giggling, a response to his enthusiasm, and it pulls him out of the detached state he was momentarily in. He blinks heavily, tuning his ears back into what’s being said.

“—for the rest of us,” Aljoscha jokes, but Flake hadn’t caught the first half. But he’s heard enough to gather what he said—the eldest man always gave them a hard time whenever they indulged. He really does not give a shit if they drank themselves to a state of delirium, but he sure as hell cares if there’s not any left for _him_. Flake licks his lips and flips his long bangs out his eyes. He leans forward to firmly set the empty bottle on the cluttered table, hard enough it has Knolli jumping—just shy of being labeled a slam.

“Soon enough, your veins are going to be pumping more alcohol than blood,” Aljoscha goes on. Flake’s forced attempt at a pacifying smile emerged as a grimace.

“Then I’ll be just like you. My rolemodel.”

Aljoscha cracks a sharp laugh, while Paul snickers and looks at Aljoscha with an amused glint in his eyes. Flake does not like being the center of attention. Ironic, considering how often he wishes he would have the confidence to be just that. Yet, when he gains that role, he just freezes—unless he’s thoroughly drunk. Then nothing matters. His self-consciousness, his tendency to drive the knife into his own back, the fear, the self-hatred all disappears. He’s just a version of himself that has shed the dead skin of his sober self. An unwanted mask that hinders him.

“How are you not dead already, anyways?” Knolli speaks up then, directed at Aljoscha. Paul snorts loudly—Aljoscha laughs.

“I don’t know,” he answers genuinely. Flake gets up to grab another beer.

He can only withstand another hour. They naturally shift towards the topic of sex. Flake is fine with hearing Aljoscha describe something nasty, because then it has them all laughing and grimacing. It’s different because, well, it’s Aljoscha. Knolli doesn’t really offer his own stories, but he does crack jokes about everyone else’s. When Paul divulges his own experiences, Flake feels weird and uncomfortable. He fidgets with the bottle in his hands, with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, with the broken knife he grabs from the coffee table. He attempts to drown it out, to reapply that filter to his sense of hearing, but it’s impossible to. Hearing such a thing naturally has his mind gravitating to visuals of what Paul describes, as vague as his descriptions are. Flake tries so hard _not to_ , but he fails every time. He can’t help but picture Paul in bed with a woman, and it makes him feel disgustingly… Self-conscious. And gross. Ashamed.

When there’s a lengthy enough silence to get a single word in, Flake gives them a mumbled, slurred excuse about how he’s tired before slinking away with a lackluster goodnight. Aljoscha calls after him, but he doesn’t even acknowledge it. He absconds with curled shoulders and a hung head—body language he isn’t even aware of.

In one of two bedrooms in the back, he collapses onto the cluttered excuse of a bed (a creaky frame, old mattress, overabundance of pillows and unwashed blankets) and buries his face into one of the pillows. Unwanted thoughts swirl around in his head. He bats them away, frowning into the pillow, and wills himself to pass out. He’s drunk enough that achieving it is easy.

What wakes him at an indiscernible time later is a crash by the door, punctuated by the rattling of glass. It jolts him awake—he shoots upright and looks over, hair messy and glasses lopsided on his face, to see Paul collapsed against the shelf of empty bottles by the door. Thankfully, none of them fell. Paul looks absolutely plastered.

Wearily, Flake watches him slowly straighten from the shelf. He stumbles forward two steps. He looks at Flake with bloodshot, glassy eyes. His short, fading bleached hair is totally disheveled, sticking out in every direction. He slurred an atrocious attempt at ‘what’s up’, before he staggers over to the bed. He loses his balance at the finish line and teeters forward, but catches himself with his hands against the sturdy side table. The entire thing shakes and sends a book to the floor.

Flake frowns. He really doesn’t want to deal with a wasted Paul right now.

Paul collapses beside him with a grunt and a loud groan of the old wooden frame. Flake is jostled from the force of his dead weight collapse. A couple pillows fall to join the book.

“What are you doing?” Flake tiredly demands, reaching up to fix his glasses, “I don’t know if you could tell, but this bed is _occupied.”_

“Mrhhmgmh,” Paul says, a muffled result of his face smothered in a sea of pillows.

“What?” Flake demands, reaching out to nudge him on the hip. Paul lifts his head only momentarily to slur, “Dun’care. I’mgonnsstay with you.”

His words are all jumbled together, but Flake can somewhat decipher them, with a furrowed brow. Then Paul drops his face back into the pillow. Flake huffs. Well, he supposes he’s not going to shove him off onto the floor… It’s not like they haven’t slept together before. He just wants to be alone.

Whatever. Flake turns to the wall and gets comfortable under the thick quilts, nestling into the sea of pillows again. He becomes aware of how his glasses are digging into the side of his head. Annoyed, he pulls them off his face and folds them. Flipping over, he leans past Paul’s motionless body, his chest pressing to his back, and sets his glasses on the side table. Then he turns away again, facing the wall once more.

“Fl’ke,” Paul slurs. Flake hums harshly, the evidence of his irritation in his voice. Paul sluggishly props up on an elbow, and loudly slurps up some escaping drool—a sound that has Flake grimacing. Paul releases a hard sigh.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t say anything else. He does turn towards the younger boy and collapses directly behind him. Flake frowns. Now he has no room. Great.

Shocking him, Paul wiggles under the same blankets and lays flush to his back. He drapes his arm around him, and closes it tightly around his flat stomach. Flake jolts when a warm nose skirts along the nape of his neck, parting the long hair there. Paul’s body is _so warm_ against his own.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Flake shakily demands. His heart begins to speed up, his stomach twisting. Heat bursts in his face. Paul mumbles something incoherent, his breaths ghosting across the back of Flake’s neck. A leg thrown over his thighs contributes to Flake’s shock and flustered state.

“C’mfy,” Paul slurs. Flake swallows hard, eyes wide and trained on the wall in front of him. Paul’s pelvis is pressed snug against his ass, his chest against his back. His arm is wound tightly around him. Paul nuzzles into the back of his head, nose in his hair, and Flake’s heart spikes, as well as his self-consciousness. He tries to remember the last time he showered. If he had known Paul wanted to get up this close to him, he would’ve showered.

Paul’s body is warm, aligned with his. His arm around his belly is firm. Paul is breathing slower now, his hot exhales bursting across Flake’s skin.

Flake recalls their earlier conversation. The images he had of Paul under the covers with a woman… Naked, with a more vulnerable expression on his face. The tint of pink splashed against his pale complexion.

He had curiously pictured him going down on a woman, trying to please her, but his mind, as unwanted as it is, twists the image around so _he’s_ the one receiving Paul’s attention. _He’s_ the one in bed with him, making Paul moan and come. Oh, God. Flake squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to beat down these thoughts, but they only strengthen the longer he lays here with him like this. Paul, with his leg hooked over his thighs, spooning up as close as possible to him.

What would Paul do, if Flake turned around, pushed him onto his back, and leaned down to kiss him? Would he be too drunk to realize who it is? Would he be too drunk to fight it? What if Flake reached down, right now, and took him by the hand? What if Flake pulled off Paul’s clothing and, if he dared to, put his mouth on him? Would Paul like it? Flake begins to sweat, overheating from the intimate cuddling, the fact he’s still fully dressed, and his shameful thoughts.

Heat twists in his gut, pointedly intensifying in the one place Flake wishes it wouldn’t: he gets hard. His cock pulsates, hot and eager under the layers of his briefs and pants. Thank _God_ he never undressed before collapsing into bed.

Breathing hard now, Flake can’t repress his fantasy of coming onto the other boy. Flake has never done anything like that. He hasn’t even had his first kiss yet. He imagines kissing Paul. He always thought his lips were cute… Almost _pretty._ He pictures the way Paul would grin at him after they kiss, looking at him with those hooded, bedroom eyes. Flake has only seen him look at girls that way. He thinks about how Paul would touch him. He’d grab him by the thighs, pull him closer, and _squeeze_ while they made out. The thought of those confident hands groping him turns Flake on even more. He fidgets, squirming under Paul’s arm. His body is hot, stomach swirling with arousal.

“G’tsleep,” Paul mumbles, obviously annoyed by his shifting.

“I-I’m too hot! I can’t s-sleep like this!” Flake stammers, humiliated and ashamed by his state, and his stupid, inappropriate thoughts about his best friend. Paul makes a huffing noise and scoots away—not far though. He slides his leg off of Flake’s, detaches from his back just slightly, while keeping his arm draped loosely around him. That’s better. Flake relaxes. He doesn’t feel as suffocated.

“Better?” Paul sleepily mumbles. Flake releases a deep breath.

“Yes,” he shyly whispers, feeling quite guilty with what’s occupying his mind. Paul grunts and squeezes his hand around Flake’s vest before going limp again. Flake flicks his tongue between his lips, and wills himself to relax. He closes his eyes again, exhausted, and forcefully thinks of anything but Paul. He pictures a room with four white walls and nothing else.

The distance between Paul’s body and his own helps. He appreciates the arm around him; a warm, heavy weight. But it doesn’t keep him up. He manages to slip back into slumber, after his erection dies down enough and his body cools. Just as he’s ebbing away, he hears Paul’s soft snoring coming from behind him.

Flake wakes up first in the morning. He blearily looks up at the ceiling, and realizes he must have rolled onto his back in his sleep. The weight of an arm around him is gone. Flake blinks sluggishly, coming back to himself. He feels uncomfortably plastered to the bed in sweat, still wearing his outfit from the night before. He looks over to see Paul’s bare back. The blankets are draped over him sloppily, bunched at his waist. His head is partially submerged in the thick pillow he’s using. Flake admires the constellation of freckles on his shoulders and back. He thinks they’re cute, but he’d never say that to his face.

Paul’s short hair is a disaster. The fading, bleached locks are an explosion. Staring, Flake drinks in the image of him like this. Sleeping in the same bed as him. He actually looks like he’s sleeping naked, based on how the blankets are laying upon him, showing only his naked torso. Flake swallows hard; the images from last night come rushing back. So does the shame.

Flake sighs, a deep exhale from his nose. It’s not as concerning, knowing Paul has kissed men before. Flake only knows this because of the times they drank together, alone, and Paul got _just_ drunk enough to blab about it. But it’s also not a good thing. It means it gives him _hope,_ that _maybe_ Paul will want him too. Knowing it’s a _possibility_ is not good.

Flake, made somber from his musings, doesn’t move. He remains laying there, staring at Paul’s rib cage expand and deflate with his slow, deep breathing. His gaze pans back up to his head. He stares at his bleached hair, fading into his brown roots. He wants to touch.

Reaching out, Flake boldly, oh-so-carefully touches at the spiky locks of hair. What does it hurt, if Paul can’t feel it? He seems deeply submerged in sleep, anyways. Getting blind drunk does that to you. Emboldened, Flake lightly runs his fingertips along the ends of his messy hair, without actually touching him. It has him smiling, faintly.

Hand descending, Flake hovers his fingers over the pale, freckled skin of his shoulder blade. He becomes stupidly bold. He lightly rests his fingertips over a concentration of pretty freckles. He can feel Paul’s breathing. The slight shifting of his torso. His skin is so _warm,_ soothingly so. Flake wants to nuzzle his face into his back, right between his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t. He lowers his hand, resting it upon the blankets behind Paul. He feels wrong. He feels like he took advantage of him, when he’s at his most vulnerable. He’s so repulsive, and horribly unattractive. How could he even _dare_ to think Paul would ever want to do anything remotely sexual with him? That Paul would ever want to kiss him? That he’d even _entertain_ the thought of fucking him?

It’s just wishful thinking. Paul would never look at him in that hot-blooded way he looks at women. Like he’d do anything to make love to them. Not a chance.

Flake climbs out of bed after an additional twenty minutes of admiring Paul’s sleeping form. He changes out of his sweaty overnight clothing, into a wine red sweater and a pair of washed out jeans. Feels much better. He runs a brush through his hair. He stares at the reflection of his thin, embarrassingly youthful face and the way his mop of dark hair frames it. His sleepy, big eyes, his shapely lips, his moles, the way his big ears stick out from his hair, just asking to be mocked. His mind seems to be too tired and dazed to produce the hateful comments that often come hand in hand when observing his reflection. He steps out of the room, leaving behind a softly snoring Paul.

In the messy kitchen, Flake thankfully does _not_ find Aljoscha—or anyone else for that matter. Good. He’s not in the mood to pretend he’s okay.

Foremost, he fills a kettle with cold water and sets it on the stovetop burner, before turning it on with a click of the gas. He goes through the lethargic motion of withdrawing three rolls from their aging collection, stored in a paper bag atop the kitchen counter. Flake yawns loudly, large enough it has him tipping his head back with the power of it as he paws at the drawer containing the knives and utensils. He grabs a bread knife and begins splitting the rolls.

One roll is smothered in strawberry jam, another apricot jam, and the third roll gets cheese with cucumber slices for Paul, because Flake knows how he likes it. The stove takes forever to bring the water to a boil, so he leaves everything as it is and steps back over to the doorway to the bedroom.

Peeking in, he sees Paul splayed out haphazardly. With his legs sticking out, it becomes apparent he’s still wearing the sweatpants he wore last night. Flake smiles faintly at the image. Stepping over the mounds of clothing and various clutter on the ground, Flake shuffles his way over to the bed. Crossing his arms, he stands over his sleeping friend. He takes in a breath, steeling himself for what will come.

Reaching out, Flake gently places his hand against Paul’s shoulder—his skin is so warm. He didn’t anticipate for the other boy to lurch up and make a disgruntled noise. Flake yanks back his touch and blinks widely, shocked by his sudden awakening.

“Your hand is so cold!” Paul whines thickly, voice heavy with sleep. Flake blushes.

“S-Sorry,” he says quietly, his voice cracking from the unfortunate combination of disuse and puberty. Paul rubs sluggishly at his face and flops over onto his back, looking up at Flake past his fingers with a pout.

“I feel like crap,” he mumbles. He lowers his hand from his face and looks the other boy up and down. “How long have you been up? Aren’t you cold? It’s so freezing!”

With that statement, Paul bundles up into a cocoon in the quilts. Flake agrees; it is indeed freezing. He shrugs.

“I’ve been up for like an hour. I made breakfast, and the water for the coffee is on the stove right now.”

“Oh, thank God,” Paul sighs, eyes closing. Flake stares down at his boyish face and swallows hard. He admires his lips before he could even think _not_ to. Paul speaks sluggishly again, blinking slowly up at Flake.

“I’m so fucking hungover. I drank way too much.”

“You were very drunk,” Flake quietly assents, searching in his bloodshot eyes. Paul squints up at him.

“I didn’t do anything stupid, did I? Last night is, well, kind of fuzzy.”

“You slept with me,” Flake flatly answers, cheeks warming. Paul’s eyes widen considerably, his mouth falling open.

“No way! Are you serious?! Holy shit! I’m sorry, Flake. You deserved better than my drunk ass.”

Flake shakes his head in bewilderment, blinking rapidly. He narrows his eyes at Paul, his lethargic brain attempting to compute what the hell he’s going on about. Then it hits him. A blush erupts from his neck to his ears. He trips up over his tongue attempting to repair the misunderstanding with a wild gesture of his hand.

“N-No! I-I mm-meant a-actually sleeping! We—We didn’t… We didn’t—Oh, God,” Flake sputters, absolutely red-faced. He shakes his head, pressing his hand over his eyes and forehead. Paul pauses, and then bursts out a single laugh, moving to sit up now. Flake peeks at him past his fingers. Paul is snickering, eyes amused. His cheeks are cutely flushed.

“Okay, I see! Jeez, don’t freak me out like that. Believe it or not, if you use that phrase, people will think differently.”

Paul releases a big exhale. Flake silently stews in his embarrassment, absolutely burning up. His face may as well be sizzling, he’s so embarrassed. Paul looks up at him and smiles, noticing. He reaches out to take his hand, squeezing as he says, “Well, I’m glad. You didn’t get to witness the absolute embarrassment of blind drunk Paul attempting to fuck.”

Flake licks his lips. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s very aware of the hand gripping his, though. It doesn’t last long. Paul drops his hand and then grinds his thumbs into his eyes while attempting to stand. He seems to have a flawed equilibrium; he stumbles forward a bit, and immediately latches onto Flake for balance. Flake nervously laughs at that, grabbing lightly onto Paul’s bicep (again, his skin is _hot,_ and Flake is drawn to it like a moth to light). Paul grumbles about being hungover.

In the kitchen, Paul lingers by his side (now wearing two thick sweaters) as Flake makes their malt coffee. Flake fusses at him and tells him to sit down. Paul obeys; he takes their breakfast to the rickety old wooden table which acts as their dining table. Soon enough, Flake joins him with their malt coffee.

As they melt back into the typical routine of Paul yammering away in-between bites of his cucumber and cheese roll, Flake listening with an occasional comment and grin, Flake feels more at ease. He looks at Paul in a way that may not be completely platonic, but it’s easier to ignore knowing Paul doesn’t seem to remember how clingy he had been the night before. Flake can pretend everything’s normal again. He can bury those feelings once more, as abrupt as they had come through one night of intimate cuddling. It will save both of them the awkwardness, and prevent the rift in their supposedly unbreakable friendship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flake messes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!

Somehow, it became commonplace. First, he claimed it was because Aljoscha passed out in _his_ bed. Where else would he sleep? Then it was because, as he so claimed, that he couldn’t get comfortable on that mattress ( _It’s too lumpy, Flake, I swear!)_. Then, allegedly, he accidentally spilled vodka all over it and didn’t want to deal with cleaning it until the next day. And then, a few days later, Aljoscha slept on it _again._ Four days after _that,_ Paul _insists_ there’s too many spiders in that room—he wants to sleep in _Flake’s_ room, because, obviously, it’s less contaminated with unwanted visitors. Then it was the _cold_ —the heat traps well in Flake’s room, after all!

It came to a point where Flake offered to just sleep on the couch if Paul wanted to use his bed so damn badly. In response, Paul had stubbornly refused to let him; it’s unfair to him, apparently.

It doesn’t happen every single night, but it happens often enough that Flake knows that Paul has some ulterior motive. Something’s going on, but he’s not quite sure what it might actually be. Paul makes no other effort to claim Flake’s room or bed during the daytime—only at night.

So… They’ve been sleeping together more often. Paul gives Flake his space, but on the occasions he’s drunk (which is almost as common as his sobriety), he nuzzles up a bit too close for Flake to comfortably sprawl. Which isn’t _bad_ necessarily… It just makes Flake question many things. And grant him very unwanted boners. Thus, he attempts to wiggle away or flat out push the other boy back and grumble about personal space. He doesn’t want Paul to accidentally brush his hand where it shouldn’t brush.

It’s not unpleasant, Paul constantly invading his bed for sleep. It’s just… Weird. Especially when Flake _knows_ Paul had been with a woman during the day, yet somehow wound up in _Flake’s_ bed. Flake wouldn’t _complain…_ He’d just _question._ And he will. Eventually. Someday.

For now, even when Paul bursts into the room and loudly proclaims it is far too cold to sleep in his poorly insulated room (it’s poorly insulated _everywhere,_ Paul), Flake will just let it happen. So far, nothing horrifically embarrassing has occurred, nor have any unpleasant discoveries been made. In fact, Flake has been sleeping better because of it. Paul isn’t wrong. It _is_ warmer sleeping together. Shared body heat, and all that. Maybe Paul is just using him for that reason. Obviously, all of those other excuses were fabricated, but maybe the complaint about the cold is truest of them all.

And so, Flake warily eyes Paul as he holds up the three layers of quilts on his rickety bed, heat already rising into his face. Paul all but dives under them, jostling the entire damn thing as well as the gangly sixteen year old atop it, who squawks at him and pushes lightly at the vague lump of him under the blankets. Paul pops his head out and looks at him with a broad grin and wild hair. Flake huffs. He childishly tugs the blankets back over himself, reclaiming what had been stolen. The blankets bunch atop Flake, revealing the majority of Paul’s curled up body, exposing him to the frigid air of their unheated flat. Paul scrambles to get back under them, crying out, “Flake, please!”

Unable to contain it, Flake laughs, a broad grin spreading across his boyish face.

“If you don’t like it, go back to your own damn bed!”

Paul isn’t having it; he grabs onto the blankets and yanks them out from Flake’s hold. He quickly bundles up in them, cruelly denying Flake the warmth. Without hesitation, Flake sits up against the wall, bracing himself, and promptly plants his feet against Paul’s side. He shoves him off onto the floor. Paul lands with a solid thud and a yelp. Flake sees Paul wiggle in his bundled form on the floor, struggling to sit up. Flake grins with amusement, giggling, and says, “There, you can sleep on the floor! That works for me!”

“What!” Paul sharply demands, lurching up into a seated position, looking up at Flake with wide eyes and a pout, “You don’t want to sleep with me that badly, huh!? Fine, I’m taking your blankets, then!”

“Why do you _insist_ on it?” Flake huffs, his amusement fading as they broach this topic, crossing his skinny arms, his thick sweater hanging from his torso. Paul takes a moment to adjust the blankets around himself, and then pointedly lays down flat on the floor covered in discarded clothing. He closes his eyes, his bottom lip obnoxiously stuck out. Flake almost laughs again, but he doesn’t. Paul is acting very childishly considering he’s the “adult” here.

“I said before!” Paul speaks up then, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling, “It’s cold! Why should I just suffer through sleeping, when both of us could sleep well together? Wouldn’t you agree?”

He then trains his gaze on the younger boy. Flake looks down, watching himself nervously fiddle with the cuffs of his sweater. He nods a little.

“Then what’s the problem?” Paul asks, gentler this time. Flake blushes. _I am really scared of you finding out._ The truth flicks through his mind, but it is immediately shoved away for the sake of preserving both his pride and their friendship. He shrugs weakly, eyes fixated on his slim fingers playing with his sweater.

“There’s no problem. It’s just… Uh.”

He stops himself before his tongue could choose his words for him. He never thinks before he talks when he’s nervous. He won’t let it happen this time. He lets it hang as he left it, unfinished and awkward. He shrugs again. Paul hums, a prod for him to finish his thought.

“N-Nothing,” Flake stammers, “I was just wondering why you suddenly decided my bed is the best place to sleep all of a sudden, that’s all.”

“Well,” Paul begins with a grunt as he moves to stand up, attempting to get a good hold on all three thick quilts. He shovels them all onto Flake, who drowns in them with a laugh. Flake can’t see anything, lost in the sea of blankets, and it seems like that’s Paul’s intention considering he pins Flake down under the blankets, essentially laying against him. Flake stares at the darkness of the blankets, motionless under Paul’s weight. Paul speaks calmly, quietly, “You told me that we slept together… When I was drunk two weeks ago. Well, I figured that meant you’re okay with it. And I meant it, that I sleep better this way. That’s it. And before you say anything—it’s not the same with sleeping with a woman. I have to put on an act around them half the time. With you, I don’t.”

That has something warm and tingly blooming in Flake’s belly. Touched, Flake is silent, unsure what to say. He knows Paul is waiting for a response. Releasing a deep exhale, Flake manages a murmured, “Okay.”

“So… Are you fine with it?” Paul asks. Flake swallows hard. He can feel Paul breathing against him, through the layers of the blankets; his rib cage pushes against him in a slow tempo. Flake is beginning to feel hot under here, from the suffocating insulation and the feelings swirling around in his mind and in his stomach. He blushes from the bold question.

“Yeah, I am,” he says, quietly. He continues with a slight stammer, twisting his sweaty hands in the quilts, “I-It’s not like I hated it, I was just… Confused.”

Probably the most honest thing he’s said to Paul since this all started. Paul hums thoughtfully. He doesn’t comment. He just gets off of Flake, and then moves to join him under the layers of blankets. Flake is startled, to say the least, when Paul doesn’t push down the blankets—he lays with him in the shroud of quilts, tucked over their heads. His legs knock against Flake’s. Flake is wearing too-short sweatpants, and Paul is wearing pyjama pants, but even so, he can feel his warmth easily. He’s glad Paul can’t see him. Flake’s face is red, eyes wide, arms curled close to his chest. In such a confined space, Flake can only breathe in Paul. He smells faintly of the soap he uses to wash his face before bed, and _himself._

“Oh, man, it’s so warm under here,” Paul breathlessly laughs, and wiggles ever closer. Flake takes in a sharp breath. He _feels_ Paul’s breathing against his face. How close is he now? He can’t even see him, even though he must be only a couple inches away. They’re sharing the same pillow. Heart pounding away, Flake wonders if Paul can _hear_ it.

What if he just leaned forward, and searched for Paul’s lips with his own? Paul is totally sober now. The fantasy of kissing a wasted Paul transforms into kissing Paul when he’s in total control, with utter coherency. Would he kiss him back? If he did, would he kiss him gently, or passionately? Would he hold his hand, or his face? How long would they kiss? Would Paul pull back after just a moment, or would they kiss until they can’t take it anymore?

Flake realizes his own breathing is hitching, and Paul is unusually quiet. He freezes, breath catching. Embarrassed fire bursts through his face. He pushes back the blankets, and gasps in fresh air.

“You were s-sucking up all mm-my air,” Flake stammers, beyond flustered. Paul laughs. He wiggles up from under the blankets as well. His head pops up—in the dim moonlight filtering in through the window, Flake can see how close his face is to his own. His eyes are wide, a grin on his face, hair wild. Flake jolts back so hard, startled, that he ends up smacking his head against the wall. Paul stutters a giggle and hisses, face wrinkling with amusement, “Shit, sounded like that hurt. I promise I don’t have cooties, Flake. Don’t worry.”

“Idiot,” Flake mumbles, absolutely red-faced as he turns onto his front, burying his face into his pillows. Paul chuckles. Flake tenses up when a slim arm winds around his back. Paul nuzzles into the crevice made by his shoulder and the pillows. Their bodies are together now; Paul’s legs are knocking into his still, his chest against Flake’s side. Paul hums sleepily.

Flake may as well be sizzling at this point. His ears burn hotly, face remaining hidden in the pillow. He supposes this is where he’s at now. Paul may be getting more sleep, but if anything, Flake will be getting _less_ because he’ll be laying here thinking about how much he wants to return that embrace, to pull Paul into his arms and nuzzle into _him._ How does it come so easy to Paul? How can he fearlessly do the things he does?

“J-Just because we’re sharing a bed,” Flake mumbles shyly into the pillow, squeezing his arms around it, “Doesn’t mean we have to cuddle.”

Paul is silent for a second. Flake realizes, a bit too late, that sounded harsh. He shouldn’t always expect Paul to read between the lines. Paul is tense against him. Flake holds his breath. His mind scrambles to produce some apology and reassurance that doesn’t incriminate himself.

“What do you want?” Paul asks with a tight voice, pulling away from him, “Do you want me to fuck off? Because I can. Just tell me, Flake. Be straight with me.”

Heart thudding, Flake swallows thickly. His knuckles are whitened, hands clutching tightly at the pillow as if it could possibly anchor him. He hates this. He always fucks things up, when he doesn’t mean to. He just doesn’t want Paul to think he _wants_ to cuddle. Because that’s gay. And he can’t let Paul discover he has a big fucking crush on him. He absolutely wants Paul to hold him. But at what cost? With what risk?

“I…” Flake begins in a muffled mumble, continuing to hide his red face cowardly, “I-I…”

Fuck. He boxed himself into a corner. If he says he _does_ want Paul to hold him, then he just chased himself around in a circle and made Paul irritated at him for no reason. But if he says he doesn’t want him to, then, well, they’re not cuddling. Shit.

“Forget what I said,” Flake sighs, keeping his red face hidden from the other boy. Paul huffs impatiently.

“So, what? You’re fine with it? Do you want me to? Or… Not?”

Flake lays there silently, attempting to figure out how to answer that without hinting at his enthusiasm.

“Uh… The first one.”

“So you _want_ me to?” Paul demands. Flake is so embarrassed. He feels stupid and childish. He nods into the pillow. Paul doesn’t respond, so he supposes he didn’t see it. Damn it. He’s really going to have to say it, huh?

“Yeah,” he mumbles. Paul huffs a dry laugh.

“You are so weird,” he says, moving to cling to his side again, resting his cheek against his back, “You suck at expressing yourself, just saying.”

Flake blushes. Paul is silent for a moment, then he speaks up, voice calmer but firm, “Move onto your side.”

Heart absolutely racing, Flake takes a full ten seconds before he thaws enough to slowly move onto his side under the thick layer of quilts. Paul immediately slides up close behind him, intimately aligning their bodies. He winds his arm around him, letting it fall against his stomach loosely, relaxed. Flake tenses up.

Eyes closed, he soaks in the heat of Paul’s slim body against his own. His stomach is exploding with butterflies. They haven’t cuddled like this since the whole bed-sharing nonsense began. The last time had been when Paul was beyond wasted. Flake brings a hand up to hide his face behind it, pinching at his eyes, biting his lip. He’s so goddamn overwhelmed. And his stupid dick is hardening again. Paul’s crotch is nestled up against his ass. Does he even _know_ what that’s doing to him?!

“Relax, jeez,” Paul huffs from behind him—the gust of warm air tickles Flake’s neck, rustling his lengthy hair. Flake can’t. He’s kind of freaking out. He doesn’t even realize he’s shaking, until Paul tightens his arm around him and asks lowly, “Hey, what’s wrong? Should I back off?”

Flake has never faced this before. Hell, he’s never been _held_ like this before—at least, before Paul. But definitely not when both parties were sober. Flake tries to calm the hell down. He’s confused and aroused and excited and scared all at the same time—why is Paul holding him like this? What if Paul realizes Flake’s hard? He just has to move his arm down a few inches and then it’s all over. And his dramatic reaction to this isn’t helping. He attempts to stifle his shaking and his quivering breathing, but Paul isn’t letting it go. Flake fights it when Paul rises up onto an elbow and tries pushing Flake onto his back, to see his face.

“Goddamn it, Flake—” Paul grunts, “Talk to me!”

He stubbornly refuses to move, until Paul _forces_ him onto his back. Flake covers his face with both hands. He can feel Paul’s body against his. Paul is no doubt leaning over him now, propped up on his elbow, trying to see his face. No way. This is not happening. Why couldn’t he just be _calm?_ Why is he so painfully _not_ smooth? Ever?

“Sorry, ss-sorry,” Flake stammers, bringing his hands from his burning face to wring them in his sweater, brow tightly knit, eyes shyly fixing up on Paul’s youthful face. He can barely see him through the moonlight, but he _can_ see him, and the concern written across his (handsome) features. Paul sighs. He reaches up to gently grab Flake by the jaw. He presses his fingers into his cheeks, which has Flake’s shapely, bitten lips bunch up. Flake looks up at him with wide eyes, his bangs falling into them.

“Shut up,” Paul says kindly, looking down at him with an exasperated expression and fed up smile. Flake blinks. Flake would typically slap his hand off of him in a gesture of rebellion, but honestly, he’d let Paul do whatever he wants to him at this point. Paul searches in Flake’s round, painfully innocent eyes and speaks lowly—his gray eyes are intense, hypnotizing the younger boy.

“What is the matter? It was like you were on the verge of—of… What’s it called.”

Paul pauses, looks up at the wall thoughtfully, searching for the word. Flake squints up at him. Paul continues gently gripping his face as he ponders. Then he meets his gaze again, eyes alight with recollection, his bleached locks an explosion around his face.

“Hyperventilation! See? I can use big words. Anyways, what’s wrong? Are you going to tell me the truth, or feed me another lie? I _can_ eat the lie, if you want me to. Tell me if you want me to drop it, but you have to _tell me_.”

Slowly, Paul releases Flake’s lower face, his mouth relaxing back into its neutral state. Flake huffs. He averts his eyes, unable to withstand the close eye contact. His hands itch from where they remain twisted in his sweater. He wants to reach out and wrap his arms around Paul’s torso, but many things hold him back.

“It’s a bit much,” Flake mumbles. Why is the truth so impossibly hard to express? Paul decides to give him some room. He moves away, no longer leaning against him, and splats back onto the bed beside him, head against a separate pillow. The blankets had become rather tangled around them, so Paul takes a second to fix them. Soon, they’re both laying side by side, kept warm by the layers of quilts.

“How so?” Paul finally asks, folding his hands together atop his belly. Flake attempts to gather his thoughts, piece by piece. He scratches nervously at his jaw, and his fingers naturally find his moles. He begins absentmindedly picking at them, anxiously, while he constructs his next question.

“I-Isn’t it weird to you?” he asks quietly, his cheeks burning, fingers unrelenting in their restless picking, “For boys to cuddle like that? I mean, wouldn’t you do that with a girl, instead?”

“Mm, no,” Paul answers without hesitation, his smooth voice filling in the dark void of the bedroom. Flake feels like they’re in their own world, somehow, and despite the uncertainty, the fear that overwhelms him, it’s nice. Paul continues.

“Who says I can’t hold my friends like that? So what if it’s seen as ‘gay’? Who gives a fuck? If I want to hold you, then I’m going to hold you—at least, if you want me to. There’s only two people in the world who get to decide if we can _‘cuddle’._ You and me. So, if you don’t want to, because it’s a bit much or whatever, then tell me.”

Silence hangs between them. Flake digests this. So… Paul wouldn’t care if Flake truthfully said he wants to hold _him,_ too? He wouldn’t suspect his feelings? To Paul, it would just be friends being affectionate, and nothing more?

“Being affectionate doesn’t mean we’re gay,” Paul adds on with amusement in his voice, as if he could read Flake’s insecure thoughts, “Whoever decided that, they’re just assholes who weren’t held enough as kids. Well, I say fuck ‘em. They don’t get to decide that for me. I do.”

Flake hears and feels Paul shift beside him. He peeks over to see Paul folding his arms under his head, looking up at the ceiling. Flake considers his next question. It comes easily. In fact, it’s burning on his tongue, aching to come out. Considering he may never get the chance again, Flake decides to spit it out. Fuck it.

“A-Are you? …Gay, I mean. You did tell me you kissed a couple guys before…”

“Ah, yeah,” Paul laughs, “I definitely did do that before.”

Flake’s heart is pounding. His breath is held, waiting for the definitive answer that will decide everything. Paul hums, thoughtfully. Flake sees him close his eyes. Paul shrugs. He releases a long exhale, as if thinking about it was tiresome.

“I guess I am. Just enough to be attracted to other boys, I suppose. Obviously, I’m not _gay,_ because I’m into women, too. I guess I’m… Both? I dunno. I tend to find women hot more often than I do with guys.”

Relief floods Flake. He feels emboldened. Like there’s hope after all. Yet, the toxic voice in the back of his head tries to make itself known, a reminder that Paul could never want _him—and_ it is true, isn’t it? Paul is beautiful. He’s handsome, and courageous, and charismatic. He could get anyone. So why the hell would he settle on _him_ of all people?

“Don’t go around telling others that, though,” Paul murmurs, digging Flake out of his self-flagellating thoughts. Flake looks at him again, past the frame of his round glasses. Paul returns the glance.

“I don’t think you would. I trust you but… You know. I only told you because you’re one of my closest friends. It’s not something I want the world to know.”

Flake pauses. Such a statement has warmth flooding throughout him—he’s genuinely touched. He weakly smiles.

“Yeah… Of course,” Flake whispers, rubbing at his red hot cheek with a shy smile, “I have no reason to tell anyone that…”

“What about you?” Paul asks following a casual, nonchalant clear of this throat. Flake’s face is burning. Reflexively, he goes back to picking at his moles. He’s silent. Paul is patient. He lays there, head upon his folded arms, slender fingers curled in to toy with his bleached locks. Flake swallows hard. When Paul shifts, turning his head to look at him, Flake’s heart constricts. His chest is tight. He feels like he can’t breathe.

“I-I don’t kn-know,” Flake begins, falling victim to that goddamn curse of his stutter—the muscles in his face clench, his jaw locking up around the syllables in his mouth. He sighs harshly. Paul continues to listen. Flake, embarrassed now, takes a moment to breathe in, and then he goes on quieter, brow deeply knit, slim fingertips working nervously over his jaw, “I think I am…. A-A little bit. Like you said. Both. I mean, I’ve only really found… One other guy attractive. It’s not common for me. But if it’s a possibility at all, I guess I a-am.”

“Gotcha,” Paul replies calmly, “Do I know him?”

“…Yes,” Flake murmurs. His heart is absolutely pounding.

“I swear to God, Flake,” Paul begins, moving to prop up on elbow, looking at him with a smirk and amused eyes, earning Flake’s shaky gaze, “If it’s Aljoscha, I’m going to—God, I don’t even know what I would do. Kick his ass.”

Flake grimaces with genuine disgust. He moves up onto his elbows as well, pushing his thin framed glasses back up his strong nose, saying with aghast, “I can’t believe you would even say that!”

Paul laughs it off, waving a hand.

“I’m kidding! So, are you going to tell me who it is?”

“No. Not a chance.”

Soon after this exchange of confessions, and Paul giving up in his attempts to drag the name out of Flake, they arrange comfortably for sleep. Paul shifts up close behind the younger boy, winds his arm around his slim waist, and tucks his face against his back. Flake wants to stroke his hand over Paul’s arm. He doesn’t. He manages to fall asleep, his mind calmed, in Paul’s embrace.

* * *

In the morning, he awakens to the sound of serenity. The chirping of birds. The distant sound of quiet conversation through thin walls. Paul’s slow breathing. Flake blinks sluggishly, dragging a hand up from the depths of the warm blankets to grind the heel of it into his eye. He looks over to his side. Paul is laying close to him atop his belly, arm slung around Flake’s waist. His face is right in front of him. Flake stares. An overwhelming, bittersweet urge to lean forward and kiss his forehead, and his eyelashes, and his freckles overcomes him. Flake swallows hard. He so badly wants to lean over and nuzzle into the crevice made by his jaw and shoulder. To nose at his hair. Paul is warm. He is Flake’s serenity.

Flake has to get up before he gives into these desires. He sluggishly sits up, his big sweater hanging loosely around him, slipping off one bony shoulder. He yawns, jaw popping from the force of it. He blinks tiredly and dimly thinks he’s glad it’s the weekend. Otherwise he’d have to be rushing home at the moment.

Paul’s arm tightens just slightly around his waist. Flake looks down at him. Paul’s eyes are cracked open. He’s staring at nothing in particular—obviously he had just woken up. It’s as if his brain is slowly booting up.

“Wh’you going?” he sleepily mumbles, training those heavy eyes up on Flake. Flake blinks, furrowing his brow.

“Nowhere,” he answers. Paul hums and closes his eyes. He nuzzles into the pillow under his head and squeezes his arm around Flake’s waist. Flake blushes.

“Do you not want to get up and make us breakfast, or what?”

“You’re warm. Be my personal heater for a moment.”

Flake huffs.

“I’ve been spoiling you,” he dryly jokes. Paul sleepily smiles, eyes remaining closed. _God, he’s so cute,_ Flake can’t help but think with a radiant blush and a slight smile.

“Lay down,” Paul murmurs. Flake finds no reason to deny him that. He shuffles back down against the mattress, reclining his head upon the shared pillows. He looks at Paul. He admires his eyelashes resting against his cheeks, sick with adoration. Paul really is so handsome. He studies his strong nose, his kissable lips, his freckles, his sharp jawline. Flake is in disbelief a boy this pretty is cuddling with _him._ It makes so much sense to him why so many girls get all gross and giggly over Paul.

And then Paul opens his eyes, lurching him out of his daydreaming. He catches Flake staring—he glances between Flake’s blue eyes, searching in them. Flake shakily jerks his gaze away. Paul’s arm tightens, just slightly, around the other boy. He shifts closer and presses his forehead to his bicep. Flake sucks in a breath.

“C’mfy,” Paul says softly. Flake is blushing so hard, it spreads to his ears. Paul doesn’t stop there. He shifts slowly, subtly, as if Flake wouldn’t be aware of what he’s doing if he just moved cautiously enough. He lifts his head to gently, calmly rest his ear against his chest, atop the vibrant orange fabric of his sweater. Flake freezes. Paul is listening to his pounding heart. This is not good.

“What are you d-doing?” Flake stammers, digging his elbow into Paul’s chest, beginning to pull away. Paul looks up at him with a furrowed brow and a frown.

“What’s wrong? Are we not allowed to cuddle anymore, or what?”

Obviously, he’s not happy with being rejected. Flake’s stomach twists. He moves to sit up against the wall. Paul pulls away. He, too, sits up, hunching over and placing his elbows against his raised knees. He runs his hands through his messy, bleached hair. Then he looks at Flake, expecting an answer. Flake sits with a curled back and a lowered head, his mop of hair hiding his eyes from Paul. He frowns.

“It’s not that,” he says quietly. Paul exhales heavily. Flake could’ve flinched from that sound alone; obviously, Paul is becoming agitated with him. Fed up with his inability to communicate. To behave like a normal fucking human being. Flake hates himself.

“Why was your heart racing like that?” Paul asks quietly, “Do I make you uncomfortable? I don’t want to force you into a position like that if you don’t want to.”

Flake is silent for a long moment. He begins idly picking at a loose thread in one of the quilts. He shrugs one bony shoulder. Paul watches him, scrutinizing him. Flake can feel his stare digging into him. Paul speaks again, voice emboldened.

“Be honest with me, for just one second,” he begins, and then pauses. Waiting for acknowledgment. Flake reluctantly peeks up at him past his fringe. A silent prompt for him to continue, even if Flake is scared. Wary of what might come. Paul searches in his eyes, speaking lowly, “You’ve been acting strange towards me lately. And you said last night… That you’re into one guy. And that I know him.”

Paul pauses. Flake is holding his breath. His throat is constricting. He stares down at the rumpled blankets, unable to look at him. He’s unable to move at all, made frozen by what’s happening right now. Paul continues, voice gentler now.

“You think I haven’t noticed your lingering stares? The stolen touches when you think I’m sleeping?”

Flake wants the mattress, the bed, the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He can’t breathe. His insides feel like lead. He’s utterly horrified. Paul continues, calmly, quietly.

“It’s alright, Flake. I just don’t want you to think it has to be a secret. And, well, if it isn’t me, then that’s fine, too. But… I don’t know. You know me. I’m the type to lay this shit out. I won’t pretend I’m not noticing things. If that _is_ the case, I want to clear it up.”

“Ss- _stop_... T-talking,” Flake struggles to choke out, strangled by his inability to talk, unable to face this yet. He curls up with his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. He presses his forehead to his knees. Paul silently obliges. He doesn’t say anything. After taking a few breaths, regaining as much composure as he possibly can, Flake speaks in a mumble, ears red, eyes squeezed shut, “You’re wrong. It’s not that. I’m s-sorry for being weird. I’ll try not to do that anymore. It was stupid of me.”

His heart is tight. His stomach is twisted into a knot. It hurts to breathe. He just wanted to be in a cool punk band with the experienced, renowned Aljoscha. He didn’t ask to crush on the hot guitarist. It just happened. They just happened to become good friends. Paul just happened to talk to him enough, make him laugh enough, for Flake’s stupid brain to be like “ _Hey, he’s cute, and maybe you want to kiss him? And more? Hey, what if you entertain the thought of him wanting you in the same way? But that’s silly, because you’re ugly and unlovable. You’re not allowed to want him. So he certainly can’t know._ ”

Flake knows he’s going to cry. He can’t cry in front of Paul. No way he’s going to add that onto the endless list of embarrassments of his pathetic, brief life. He unravels his long body, scrambles to get up, and stomps off the bed, charging for the door. Paul doesn’t even say anything as he watches the younger boy go. Flake only stops at the front door of Aljoscha’s flat to tug on his shoes, and then he’s shoving out into the chilly morning air to go back home to his parents. Fleeing, like the coward he believes he is.

His vision is wobbling and his nose is running by the time he manages to find his way home. He grabs the hidden key by the door, gets it unlocked, and shoves inside. He takes long, stubborn strides right for his bedroom door. He can hear his mother in the kitchen, calling for him. Flake ignores it. He locks himself away in his bedroom. He kicks off his shoes violently, back hunched and hands in fists. At this point, he’s unable to maintain composure. He collapses into his bed, buries his face into one of his pillows, and begins to sob. Everything is over. His time with Feeling B is _over._ He ruined everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not over, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Inchy, Bree, and Hwbswd for helping me stoke the fires of inspiration to update this thing.

Never before has he known such an agonizing eighteen days. Fear and humiliation alike kept him tethered to the boundaries of his home and _Berufsschule_ , and nothing more. Food lost taste. Scents became bland. Conversation dull. Even his brother failed in cheering him up, when usually they fooled around like lunatics. And, naturally, being his best friend, he’d recognize his dark mood and pester him to confide in him. But instead, Flake did the opposite. He shut everyone out and holed up in his room whenever his presence among others was deemed unnecessary. He’d never been particularly good at coping with situations like this. Escaping it seemed easier than facing it head on.

That is, until the problem itself refused to wait any longer.

Flake had been laying on his bed, flipping through a book mindlessly, seeking any form of entertainment that didn’t warrant leaving the room. It was a cold day. He wore his thickest sweater and pair of old sweatpants, with thermal leggings underneath. It has been a slow day, as well. Sundays are always slow, but also held dread, for Sundays are a prelude to Mondays. Mondays, unfortunately, are when seeking education is a requirement. Thus, he expected no excitement, least of all any guests, _much less_ that guest being Paul himself, who burst into him room without much warning nor a knock on the door, bellowing out, “Flake! Get your ass up! Aljoscha is waiting out in the van!”

Needless to say, Flake chucked his book at the door with a horrified scream, collapsing backwards—promptly followed by a hard thud of his head meeting the wall. Paul merely burst out a sharp laugh as Flake cursed out in pain, sitting up and rubbing at the back of his head. Eyes wide and training on the image of the elder boy standing in his room with his hands on his hips, Flake is speechless. Paul looks around with intrigue, saying, “Well, I can only guess this is where you’ve been hiding! Anyways, up, up! Let’s go!”

Without another word or moment of delay, Paul lurches for Flake’s Casio resting propped against the wall, gathers it up in his arms, bundling its accompanying cords in a fist, and then rushes out of the room.

Heart pounding away, Flake has to take a minute to recuperate from his shock, though wary excitement and relief soon overcomes him. He’s still in Feeling B?! They still want him around? He thought their silence until now was a great indication that they’ve decided to move on without him. Nearly three weeks of nothing is typically unheard of, when they always made a habit to meet up on the weekend to fool around and half-heartedly make music. Invigorated, Flake has a broad grin on his face as he scrambles to pull on socks and run a brush quickly, sloppily through his tangle of dark locks.

Stumbling out of his room, he hears Paul speaking rapidly in that squeaky, bratty voice of his, rambling to his poor mother about their exciting plans, and how Flake has to dust off the cobwebs from his keyboard so they can make music! It’s about time, after all! Hearing his mother’s assent is a bit embarrassing, but all he can do is stride out into the kitchen to face it. Paul is clutching his Casio and the tangle of cords under his arm, and his mother is politely pouring Paul a glass of juice that shall remain unconsumed. Paul’s hair is in total disarray, as if he had been previously electrocuted. He’s wearing a thick, black sweater that fits him well, following the straight lines of his small torso, joined by thick jeans which are obviously too big on him. The bottom of the pant legs are folded up. He’s wearing the most atrociously beat up pair of boots; they’re practically falling apart on his feet.

“What are you doing?” Flake spits out, earning a sharp glance from Paul and a look from his mother. Paul blinks widely, eyebrows raised, and his smile widens to a grin.

“Picking your mopey ass up so we can get the show on the road, duh! I bet your mum is sick of you, anyways. I’m doing her a favor!”

His mother laughs. Flake frowns, huffing, and rushes over to snatch his Casio from Paul, maybe a bit too roughly. He gets stupidly defensive when he’s flustered. He can’t help it. Paul just smirks at him knowingly, and lets him take it. The cords fall to land against his feet.

“Let’s just go,” he mumbles, turning to the door. The cords drag noisily behind him along the flooring as he begins towards it, eager to escape this uncomfortable situation. Paul exchanges polite goodbyes with Flake’s mother, and then hurries after him, into the crisp, cool air.

Man, it’s cold! Shuddering from where he stood on the stone steps, Flake spots Aljoscha in the driver’s seat of the van. The sight of him has a new wave of relief falling over him, his shoulders relaxing. Peering beyond the window of the passenger side, Aljoscha offers a toothy grin and a salute of two fingers. A pursed, tight-lipped smile comes to Flake’s face. He nods in return.

Only after his socked feet become icy from standing on the stone steps does Flake realize he forgot to put on his damn shoes. Paul seems to be more attentive than he; he carefully takes his keyboard from Flake’s wiry arms, gathering the cord up, earning a shaky glance from nervous blue eyes. He gives Flake a gentler smile, his ambiguous eyes open and understanding. Flake blushes, hard. Swooning. His heart leaps and his stomach tightens. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring, glancing over his freckled face (along those thinly smiling lips, his round cheeks, knowing eyes bearing amusement), until Paul gestures to the door with a tilt of his head, saying, “Put on some shoes, moron.”

Flake huffs. He has nothing to retort with: he’s a bit too overwhelmed at the moment to use his wit for something as insignificant as putting on a pair of shoes. As he definitely should, considering his toes are about to fall off. He rushes back into the house, back curled and head low. He still has to say goodbye to his mother, anyways.

Sitting in the cluttered backseat of the van gives him an overwhelming sense of _home_. It’s a blanket of comfort after weeks of agonizing. But even so, that nervousness still sits like a rock in his stomach. There are things he’s still not ready to talk about, and he’s not sure if he ever will be. He wonders if Paul told Aljoscha. He wonders if Paul will even bring it up again. He wonders if Paul even cares anymore. But as they drive along, Flake carefully balancing his Casio on his knees, gazing at the back of Aljoscha’s and Paul’s heads with a weak smile on his face, Flake decides that fear isn’t worth more to him than this. He won’t cater to that fear if it meant losing his happiness. Paul and Aljoscha are rambling about the shit they were up to the past two and a half weeks, considering they hadn’t met up due to Aljoscha’s busy lifestyle and Flake’s cowardice—though that is left unexpressed by Paul. Paul is typically the one who calls Flake up to let him know they’re meeting for rehearsal or to simply drink and fuck around. Aljoscha’s lack of a snarky comment about Flake’s absence is enough to show that he didn’t particularly care. But it makes sense. It’s not like Aljoscha, a popular man in his mid-thirties, would rely solely on them for entertainment, nor does his responsibility only lie in this band he made with a pair of kids.

The thought reassures Flake a bit. At least he won’t get an earful from Aljoscha. Why would he?

Flake jumps, yanked out of his deep thoughts, when half of a pencil is thrown at him. It clatters across the keys of his Casio and tucks itself into a fold of his sweater. He picks it up. It’s been snapped in half. He looks up just in time to see Paul chuck the other half at him. Flake dodges it, and it hits the window behind him with a loud clink.

“Earth to Flake!” Paul calls loudly, beyond the rumbling of the van. Grinning a little, Flake chucks it back at him. He completely overshot it; the abused half-pencil hits against the roof of the van, ricocheting into some unknown place. Paul sticks his tongue out at him. Flake flips him off. Paul covers his mouth in mock horror, eyes wide. Flake actually snorts at that—he couldn’t repress it. His cheeks are warm, and his belly is nervously tingling. Even interacting with Paul in this manner is bringing him back to that morning two weeks ago. He tries to play it cool.

“Contemplating the universe over there?” Paul calls with a cheeky grin and squint of his eyes. Flake huffs. He shrugs, lackluster. Paul pouts at him: an exaggerated bottom lip, accompanied by intense puppy eyes. Flake stares, stone-faced, though he finds it quite cute. His lack of a response has Paul scoffing and waving him off. He flops back against the passenger seat and continues rambling at Aljoscha about whatever bullshit crosses his mind. Head hung, Flake glumly picks at the residue of a sticker clinging to two keys, now pouting himself. Maybe that was _too_ cool. He’s not sure how to act around Paul anymore. This sucks.

* * *

Aljoscha’s flat is as disastrous as he remembers, but it is freeing in itself. Flake feels like he can breathe here. He follows in after the other two, cradling his keyboard to himself, and only after they step within the threshold of his shitty flat does Flake feel a bit more comfortable. He immediately kicks off his shoes, and strides further into the living room, leaving the other two to chat at the door. He sets his keyboard on the couch, delicately, as if it were his baby. Which it may as well be. If he had tits, and if it required sustenance to operate, he surely would breastfeed it. The thought has him snorting to himself. He makes for the bathroom to give himself a breather.

Now, he stands at the sink, faced with the same filthy mirror. How does this fucking thing get so disgusting, so frequently? This time, it’s covered in water residue, and stains from someone energetically brushing their teeth. It’s not like Flake really cares, but he has to gauge his reflection now. He wipes it off with a nearby towel and scrutinizes himself. His hair is a bit disastrous. He runs the tap, wetting his fingers, and runs them through his locks, until they fall more nicely around his boyish face. More like a mop now, rather than a rat nest. He checks his teeth. Gross, as always.

But at least he can take care of the breath situation. He opens the drawer under the bowl of the sink to find his little baggy of toiletries he left here at Aljoscha’s flat after a particularly brutal vomiting spell. It really is awful not being able to clean your mouth after that. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if he brushed his teeth here more often than he does at home… Probably because of a certain someone, really.

He starts brushing his teeth thoroughly. Using an excessive amount of toothpaste, he scrubs at his teeth and tongue. After rinsing out his mouth the first time, he squeezes out another dollop of paste, and does it again. Only after his teeth are smooth under his tongue, and his tongue itself is no longer white (which, again: gross), does he deem it suitable. Taking off his glasses, he rubs at his eyes, and then cleans the lenses with his sweater.

Stepping back, he stares at himself in the mirror, wondering if this could ever be deemed attractive to Paul. He’s not sure why he even cares. It’s not like he’s going to try anything, especially after _last time_ … Maybe he just doesn’t want to come across as totally disgusting to the other boy. Good enough, he supposes. He won’t be flirting, he’ll only be maintaining some semblance of a human being with a grasp of personal hygiene.

He turns and leaves the musty bathroom.

In the living room, he sees Paul sitting cross legged on one of the couches, flipping through a spiral notebook full of scribbles, both in drawings and in writing. Aljoscha is in the kitchen, making drinks, of course. Flake hesitates at the other end of the room, crossing his skinny arms, biting at the inside of his cheek. Paul glances up and gives him a faint smile. He has a knitted blanket draped around his small form. Makes sense. It’s cold in here. He speaks with a laugh in his voice.

“Flake, come look at this shit Aljoscha thought up. Ridiculous.”

He pats the space next to him. Flake swallows hard. He’s being so nice, after everything? Flake nervously shuffles up to the couch and drops onto it, beside Paul. Paul shifts closer. Flake’s stomach tightens and heat immediately shoots up into his face. He twists his fingers into the fabric of his sweater, keeping his arms crossed. He sniffs (it really is cold in here!) and peeks over at Paul’s hands, slim and quite pretty, holding the notebook open. Why would Flake even care about another boy’s hands? And why are they so nice looking? Flake looks down at his own hand, clutching his bicep. He wonders if Paul thinks the same about _his_ hands…

“Look at that,” Paul laughs with a grimace, pointing at a drawing of… A woman with two vaginas? Is that what it is? Or a dog with vertical eyes? The fuck? A squid with two mouths? There is a lot of scribbled nonsense.

Flake leans in further, squinting.

“What is that even supposed to be?”

Paul laughs harder. He leans in close, too, and Flake’s heart nearly explodes. Paul is right there, right in front of his face. If he looked up, their faces would be _so close…_

Flake swallows hard. Paul speaks lowly.

“I don’t know, man. I think that’s what Aljoscha was going for. Can’t even tell what it is. Said it was the ‘embodiment’ of what punk sounds like.’

“I disagree,” Flake scoffs. “That is a pathetic attempt. It looks like shit.”

Paul giggles, peeking up at him past his wild hair with a greatly amused grin. Cute. Shit. So cute. Flake stares. Their faces are very close. Flake wonders if he can smell his minty breath. He hopes Paul appreciates that he went through the effort. He searches in Flake’s eyes. Flake has to look back down just so he doesn’t vomit from nervousness. Paul speaks again, softer now.

“Well, what would you draw, then, to show what punk sounds like?”

“Us,” Flake mumbles, without really thinking. Paul giggles. He knocks their shoulders together. Flake momentarily loses the ability of speech, throat tightening. He looks at him with bashful eyes, though he doesn’t mean to come across that way. Paul still smiles at him regardless, and reaches out to ruffle the back of his hair. His fingers curl into the longer, dark locks, and then he slips his hand away. He stands from the couch with a groan. He drops the notebook onto Flake’s lap. Flake reflexively releases the tight grip he held of his biceps, and shakily takes it in his hands. He looks up at him with wide eyes and pink cheeks, unaware of how terribly flustered he looks. Paul stretches his arms out with a contented groan, and then gestures to the kitchen where Aljoscha is whistling to himself.

“You want a drink?”

Flake licks his lips, a flick of his tongue. He nods, offering the weakest attempt of a thankful smile as he could possibly manage considering his state. Paul grins a little, showing a sliver of teeth.

“You got it,” he says with a sarcastic thumbs up, and then turns to enter the kitchen. He begins pestering Aljoscha to hurry up and pour the booze—no need to serenade it. Tuning it out, Flake rubs his hands over his face. His heart is racing, and his stomach is all tingly. Shit… He’s got it so bad.

Soon enough, they’re pretty damn drunk. At least, Flake is… Or so he thinks. He feels pretty drunk. His head is cloudy, heavy, and his body is warm, tingling, buzzing. Somehow, the concept of going to vocational school tomorrow morning has completely evaded him. No semblance of coherency remains here, nor the ability to care about anything but spending time the other two, whom he has missed dearly. He'd rather be with them than fiddle with toolmaking any day.

Aljoscha has been belly-aching about some conquest leading him on, while he and Paul listened with varying grimaces. Eventually, Paul complained about how annoying he’s being. So what if some guy didn’t want his crusty ass? If anything, the poor man avoided a life plagued with disease. That earned him a middle finger, and two wadded, used socks chucked at his face, prompting a disgusted scream from Paul and raucous laughter from Flake. Aljoscha is never truly defensive when it came to their snotty little comments. They seemed to amuse him more than anything. He just waved Paul off with a drunken toss of his arm, and gloated that at least _he_ had the capability of getting some ass. And that _his_ balls have dropped. Paul might have to wait a couple more years for that. Paul definitely did not take that lying down.

This goes on for some time. Flake has yet to really achieve a place of total comfort to interject and insert himself into the bickering like before, so he merely sits and watches with a grin and a perpetually full cup of alcohol. Eventually, after laughter has faded and quips have been exhausted, they move onto another topic of conversation: homosexuality.

“Hey, so…” Paul begins during one of those rare moments of silence, while Aljoscha struggled in his chair, fixing up his pillows behind himself, “How did you find out?”

Flake, seated at the other end of the same couch, trains his hazy, drunken gaze on the other boy. Paul is toying with the beer bottle in his hands, slim fingers peeling at the damp label. He’s looking up at Aljoscha past his wild hair, head ducked slightly. Aljoscha grunts unattractively, kicking out his feet as he uncomfortably settled back into the torn recliner that really creaked far too much than it should be allowed. He ruffles his hair back from his face, looking at Paul.

“What? Find out what?”

“That you were…” Paul begins, hesitant, and then gestures lazily with a hand. Aljoscha takes a long drink from his glass of vodka while Flake watched Paul nervously, slumped against the armrest of the couch, cradling his own cracked mug of drink in his hands. His heart is racing now, stomach clenched. Why is Paul bringing it up? Does he not care how telling such a question is? Flake would never ask him that, solely to appear uninterested if only to avoid the gaze of scrutiny.

“When I looked at some guy’s arse and thought ‘Damn. He’s got a fine arse. I’d fuck ‘em.’” Aljoscha replies drunkenly, and then sniggers to himself, one of those sly grins breaking across his face. He rubs at his eye with a wrist while Flake makes a face, and Paul laughs. Aljoscha goes on, because of course he does.

“It’s just a moment of realization, more than anything. You don’t know why y’find these muscular guys in movies so damn interesting, or why it makes your little buddy stand at attention, but they just are, and they just do.”

Paul makes a low choking sound and looks at Flake with a grimace and squinting eyes. Flake grins. Gross.

“It’s like,” Aljoscha continues, gesturing with his glass of vodka, finger extended towards Paul, “How far would you be willing to go? Would you just kiss a mate, or would you fuck him? Two very different things, y’know. Just ‘cause you wouldn’t mind kissing a dude, doesn’t necessarily mean you’re gay. I’m not into certain friends, but I’d still kiss ‘em, ‘cause they’re my friend. It’s the difference between physical affection ‘cause you love a guy, or physical affection ‘cause you wanna bone him. Figure that out, and you’ll get your answer.”

Flake is very red-faced now. He stares down into his cup and swirls the liquid a bit, attempting to appear unbothered by this topic. He can’t help but think back to all the times Paul sneaked into his bed to share it, to cuddle. Was that merely physical affection shared with a friend, or an attraction for something more? Surely, it was only friendship. Paul himself said that he should be able to express physical affection towards another man without feeling challenged. He’s not wrong, but what if he was just _saying_ that? What if there was more to it?

“Or,” Aljoscha says with a grin, amused, glassy eyes trained on Paul, who has been curiously silent during this explanation, “Simply find some gay porn, watch it, look at it, and gauge your reaction. Easy.”

Paul settles back into the couch, crossing his thin legs. One of those slight smiles is on his face, a smile that is quite ambiguous. It’s almost always successful in hiding his true thoughts. Flake knows it well. Voice casual, Paul speaks as he brings his beer to his mouth, “I’ll pass, thanks.”

Eyes falling from Paul’s face, Flake stares distantly at Paul’s crossed legs as he thinks. Aljoscha makes a good point. It really has to do a lot with how your body responds. It’s a pretty telling sign when you get hard at a picture of a guy flexing in a magazine. Or seeing your friend fresh out of the shower with only a towel on his head. Or when your friend innocently brushes your hair back from your neck. Or witnessing your friend lift heavy boxes or amplifiers right in front of you, and you can see his muscles bulging, as insignificant as they may be, and the way his face tenses, and how sweat comes to his body, and—A lot of instances like that. Unfortunately, Flake is far too familiar with them.

When he was younger, he certainly had experiences when it came to girls, but with guys? That wasn’t as common. There were moments of confusion, but nothing that outright screamed _’you’re gay!’_ At least… Until he met Paul, really. That scrawny kid with the unfortunate mustache and dark mullet. Meeting him, and connecting immediately… That was a feeling he never knew before. The way Paul [made him smile and laugh](https://64.media.tumblr.com/62246e07956616e5af4fa4e4cabeac13/57d2e7d3a8ebde73-cc/s400x600/40570bc286225e0d125e302594d22be299d88cba.jpg), and how his joy made Paul joyful, too. The thought brings a faint smile to Flake’s face.

He pans his gaze up to fix it on Paul’s profile. Aljoscha is now rambling about his first experience with a guy, one they’ve heard before, and Paul is watching him with a wary frown and dubious eyes. Flake takes the time to stare. He thinks back to the times he spent with Paul, when it was just the two of them. That, unfortunately, had been pretty rare at the time. They were always with a group of guys, and Aljoscha was never far. They were friends by means of the band, really. Of the scene. It was only in the last few months that they began meeting outside of these occasions, which Flake is thankful for. But he recalls being excited to go to these get-togethers, the ‘rehearsals’, to go on stage with other bands, if only because it meant spending more time with him.

He supposes that’s when it really began—the realization that there was a presence of feelings beyond that of friendship. Every night going to bed thinking of Paul, wishing he was there beside him. The abrupt, embarrassing thoughts of: What would it be like kissing him? What would it be like if they held hands? How would Paul react? Little fantasies that frequently plagued his mind whenever they spent the day together.

And then… Naturally, somehow, they began touching each other in platonic, affectionate ways. Though always initiated by Paul, they sat close enough their sides pressed together. Or Paul would throw his arm around his shoulders in a sort of side-hug, just because he _wanted_ to. Sometimes, when extremely drunk and fucking around, Paul would wind their arms together to tease him, or start pulling him along to someplace, or to dance. And, then, of course, sleeping together… Sharing sleeping bags. Paul cutting his hair for him. And _after that_ , he would ruffle his hair, or pet it, at random times. Flake loved every instance and second of these touches, but could never summon the courage to return the gesture. Unless he was completely drunk. Then he could, simply because he had forgotten the definition of embarrassment.

They haven’t even been friends _that_ long, but Paul became a magnet for physical affection very quickly. Flake soaked it up. And still does. He’s never had a friendship like this in his life.

Paul turning his head to look at him jolts him out of his thoughts. Paul searches his face with a grin growing across those pretty, pink lips. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bearing signs of drunkenness. Glassiness, a sort of hazy stare. Cute. Flake himself is definitely past that point, as well. The topic just killed his buzz a bit, that’s all.

“You still with us?” Paul laughs, reaching out to nudge him on the knee with a hand. Flake sits up straighter and blurts out with a laugh, “I had to go somewhere else to cope with Aljoscha talking about that shit again! Unfortunately, yes, I’m still here.”

Rolling his eyes, Paul smiles at him warmly—and then runs his hand down Flake’s shin, across the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Flake freezes, breath caught. He stares at him with wide eyes and red cheeks. Removing his touch, Paul sits back and finishes his beer, slumped against the opposite armrest of the couch. Flake watches him, flustered. That was weird. And out of nowhere. What was that supposed to be? Paul is probably just messing with him. He’s drunk, so he must be. Aljoscha definitely influences him far too much.

“Alright, alright,” Aljoscha interjects, extending his hands and shaking them off as if to shed away the topic of conversation, “Let’s talk about what the youngsters want to talk about. Let’s hear it, come on, you two!”

Eventually, once bored with conversation, Flake digs out the Casio, and Paul finds a tambourine. Though, having predicted this outcome, Aljoscha hid the cord to Flake’s Casio hours ago—he did not want another visit from the cops due to noise complaints this late at night. Thus, the pair can only glumly play with the tambourine. It’s not long before Aljoscha slurs out some excuse for his disappearance, before escaping to the bathroom.

They hear him pissing for a minute straight, door left open. It’s promptly succeeded by the tell-tale sound of him collapsing into the bathtub with an explosive thud and rattle of the shower curtain, punctuated by a series of curses, colorfully exclaimed in a heavy slur that makes them nearly unintelligible. Setting down the tambourine which he’s been shaking in Flake’s face for the last five minutes, Paul gets up from the floor with a grunt and mumbles, slurring a bit himself, “I’ll g’check on the old fuck.”

He staggers up onto his feet. Sitting cross-legged behind him, Flake reaches out to plant both hands against Paul’s bony butt, just so he won’t collapse _back_ onto _him_. Giggling, Flake speaks above his typical level of volume, ordering sternly, “Don’t fall into th’tub with him, alright? Report back t’me posthaste, Hiersche.”

Paul swats his hands away, laughing. He stumbles forward a few steps as he coyly teased, a grin on his face, “Oi, I’m not ready for that yet! Gettin’ a bit handsy back there, huh?”

With that, he reaches out to ruffle Flake’s hair to complete disarray, and makes his way to the bathroom, carefully stepping around anything that would warrant him tripping and cracking his head open. Blushing, Flake watches him go, swaying from where he sat atop a mound of pillows and blankets.

Hair disastrous, Flake dazedly looks around, eyes lidded and heavy, mouth open. Shit, he’s so thirsty. He licks his lips. Obtaining water would mean having to get up and go into the kitchen… Not worth the effort. He hears Paul’s laughing voice, and absolutely nothing from Aljoscha. He definitely passed out. Considering Paul comes out with a roll of his eyes and a greatly amused smirk, Flake assumes the elder man is fine. Paul grabs a couple pillows and reenters the bathroom. Flake can hear Paul telling Aljoscha to lift his stupid, empty head. He leaves soon after, turning the light off and keeping the door open.

“Out?” Flake asks, rubbing sluggishly at his face. Paul nods. Instead of rejoining the younger boy like Flake expected, he drunkenly approaches the stationary exercise bike that Aljoscha had dragged into his flat a few months ago, gifted to him by a friend who stole it from his mum, or something. Paul begins tracing the wires of the large cage surrounding the front wheel. He makes a face, rubbing his fingertips together.

“Dusty.”

“I dare you t’lick it,” Flake replies, struggling to roll up onto his feet, using the couch as leverage. He’s so damn drunk. He wobbles as he walks across the small living room, stepping over empty bottles and clusters of various _shit_ that somehow has found a home on Aljoscha’s floor. The world is wobbling. Everything is more or less at a sixty degree angle. Flake braces himself against the handles of the stationary bike, and decides he is going to climb up onto it. Paul snorts loudly, looking at him with a very amused grin. His eyes are really red and glassy. He’s wasted. He’s making a stupid expression, with that big, dumb grin on his face. Flake raises a brow at him challengingly, while carefully, expertly taking a seat on the worn leather seat. See? He’s a pro at sitting on things when drunk. Paul now has undeniable proof of it. Flake keeps a tight grip on the handles. His sense of equilibrium is so fucked. He can barely keep his head from bobbing.

“What d’I get in return?” Paul teases, bracing his hands against the frame of the bike, looking up at Flake, eyes big and bright, teeth bared in his grin. Flake hums thoughtfully, planting his feet against the pedals, toes curling around the breaking plastic. While Flake begins slowly pushing, the wheel turns within the wire cage, producing a surprisingly quiet, bearable whistling sound unlike the screeching he anticipated. He starts pedaling at a steady pace. Hands outstretched to grip the handles, it makes his loose sweater dangle openly. He can feel the slight breeze of the moving tire tickle his stomach.

“Cancer,” Flake replies, and then cracks a grin, failing to hide it. Paul laughs drunkenly. He steps over the encased wheel, straddling it, and folds his arms across the handlebars, now closer to the other boy, nearly face to face. Flake leans back further, his grinning face straightening to something tense and surprised as his drunk brain begins to conclude: _’Wait. He’s doing something.’_ Paul smiles at him, eyes becoming hooded.

“That sounds like a shitty reward, Flake. How about… If I lick it, I get’to choose what I lick next?”

Flake stops pedaling. He looks at Paul with squinting eyes, cheeks warm.

“Uhhhh... What would that be?”

His heart is pounding away. Butterflies are fluttering crazily in his belly. Flake stares down into Paul’s mischievous eyes. Paul hums thoughtfully, eyes swimming southward across Flake’s front. Flake holds his breath. Paul’s gaze settles on Flake’s hands, gripping the handles of the bike. He unfolds one arm, just to reach out. He carefully, gently strokes his fingers along Flake’s strong wrist, and then draws them back again to touch at his hand. His eyes are downcast to watch himself do so. Flake doesn’t even think: he just whips his hand back, pressing it to his own chest, looking at Paul with appalment.

Paul’s wide-eyed gaze trains up on his face. Flake can’t think, can’t breathe. He didn’t mean to react so strongly. It’s not unusual for them to touch like that. It’s just—circumstances. Paul weakly smiles at him, eyes displaying something Flake can’t understand, especially not when he’s this drunk. He fucked up. Maybe a bit stupidly, Flake decides he can’t let it just hang like that. He’s a grown fucking man, damn it. He can be more mature, rather than shying away like some pathetic little boy. He reaches out to grab Paul’s wrist, a bit rougher than he meant to. Once again, Paul looks shocked.

“H-Here,” Flake slurs, tongue tripping just slightly, as he guides Paul’s hand to the handle. Then Flake gets up. He _was_ going to tell Paul to take a turn, but instead, he overestimated himself and his ability to climb off in a graceful manner. The room spins. He loses control of his balance, and his leg catches on the frame while his upper half pivots to the side too quickly. He’s not even sure how it happened, but he ends up collapsing in a heap of limbs, unfortunately concluded by a jarring smack of his head meeting the carpeted floor. His brain ricochets around painfully. Ow.

He rolls onto his back, head lolling, while Paul says something. He can’t even decipher it as pain continues to throb through his skull. Stupid drunk legs. Can’t do what they’re meant to do. Now he looks like a moron. Opening his eyes, Flake’s swimming vision stabilizes again, and he sees Paul standing over him with a look of concern on his face. Or, rather, what looks like an image of Paul standing over him. His round glasses were knocked out of place; they're halfway up his forehead. Sluggishly reaching up, Flake fixes them. Paul drops to kneel beside him. Flake blinks, one eye at a time.

“Oops,” he mumbles. Then he splays out, with a dramatic drop of his arm to the floor.

Paul laughs. He reaches out to tug at Flake’s big earlobe, albeit gently.

“You need to be m’re careful, you dumbass! You’re t’drunk for that shit. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt. Fuckin’ idiot. Moron. Careless… Giraffe.”

“Shut up!” Flake bursts out with a broad grin, shooting a hand out to smack Paul in the stomach. Paul clutches his wrist with both hands, stopping it, and replies, saying, “Are you okay, though? F’real.”

Flake turns his head to look up at him. Paul is partially obscured by his wild bangs, so he reaches up with his free hand to scrape them back. Paul has the cutest look of concern in his glassy eyes. Panning his gaze over himself, Flake looks at his splayed out body. His feet are pressed to the cold frame of the stationary bike, but he’s too long for it to be comfortable; his legs are kind of twisted. With a strained grunt, he shifts so he can arrange them comfortably. He then catalogues every surviving limb of his body. His vision is a bit hazy, but he manages to count two legs, two arms, and ten toes. He meets Paul’s gaze and says with a straight face, “No broken bones, and I still have all my toes. I think I’ll pull through.”

Paul laughs. Reaching out, he delicately brushes Flake’s messy hair from his face. His fingertips are so painfully gentle, it has Flake’s throat tightening, eyes widening as he stared up at the other boy’s smiling face.

“Glad I don’t have to look for any toes on the floor, then,” he says, slurring still. He then moves to lay down beside Flake.

Remaining frozen, Flake is still in disbelief over the touch that Paul just gave him, and how it made him feel. It was so soft. He’s only been touched so tenderly like that by his mother. His entire body is warm, beyond just the effects of the alcohol. That was really… Nice. He likes it when Paul touches him in little ways like that. Just to show affection. It’s sweet.

Flake realizes some drool had escaped his mouth during that fall. He scrubs it off with a wrist. His other hand is still kept captive by Paul, now clutched to his chest. Paul is laying on his side, facing him. Flake turns his head to look at him. Their faces are so close. He somehow doesn’t mind it this time. And holding eye contact isn’t as difficult. Paul is smiling still. Damn, he’s so cute. Flake stares at him. He admires his pretty lips. The steel blue of his irises. The freckles on his nose. His flushed cheeks.

He loves looking at him. Paul is so handsome. Flake can’t help but smile, meeting his gaze again.

Paul leaning in ever closer, nearly to the point their noses touch, has Flake freezing, his mouth falling open, eyes wide. Paul reeks like beer, especially when he opens his mouth and speaks in a whisper.

“You’re s’cute, you know,” Paul murmurs in a shy slur, running his hand up and down over Flake’s wrist, fingers catching on the fabric of his sweater. “I really like lookin’ at you. I-I love—I love your eyes. And, you know, you got—you got a great smile. I… I love seeing you smile.”

And then he leans in, sliding his body across the distance between them, to knock their foreheads together—though he had risen up on an elbow, so now it’s more like he’s resting his head atop Flake’s. He brings his skinny arm around the younger boy, hugging him at an awkward angle, hand gripping his sweater. Flake is speechless. He stares at Paul’s shoulder and feels suffocated by the overwhelming wave of nervousness and shyness that overcomes him. His stomach clenches.

 _What?_ What did he just hear him say?

Flake’s tongue is frozen. He can’t speak. Paul shifting back just enough to look at him, a weary, nervous smile on his face, doesn’t help. Flake just gawks at him, speechless. Paul grins. His cheeks are a stark red. He’s obviously embarrassed, too.

“Are you okay?” he laughs, squeezing his wrist in his hand. Flake finally closes his gaping mouth. Face burning, he manages breathlessly, “What?”

Paul exhales heavily. He brings his hand back, breaking the awkward one-sided hug, to rub at his eyes. He then hides his face in his hand. He leans forward to knock his forehead into Flake’s shoulder, face smothered in his palm. Flake is too—he can’t—what is happening?! Why did Paul say those things? Is this for real right now? Is this really happening?

“I don’t—I don’t want’to assume,” Paul mumbles, voice tight and breathless, as if he could barely talk, “I just—I felt like you were… Into me, too.”

Flake is so confused. Paul is saying so many things right now. How can Flake even begin to pick them apart and choose one thing to focus on, especially when intoxicated like he is now? Paul sighs, his body heaving against his.

“I like you,” Paul mumbles, spoken so quietly Flake barely heard it past the roaring of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart. He releases Flake’s wrist. Flake’s hand rests limply against Paul’s stomach. Flake realizes he’s pulling away. No, no, no—

Lurching up into a seated position, Flake shakily draws his arms around his smaller friend. His _best_ friend. Paul tenses up. Flake is probably squeezing him too hard, but he’s overwhelmed, incredibly so. Control is difficult when he’s both drunk and flustered. Paul wheezes. But he eventually wiggles his arms out from between them to hug him back. Flake is burning up, everywhere. His heart is hammering, and his stomach hurts from the amount of anxiety and emotion he’s feeling. Paul clings to him.

“Um, I-I,” Flake begins, realizing he has to say something now. Shit, no way is he going to be able to say this coherently. He takes in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. His thoughts are running away from him, a roller coaster of panic as he attempts to get a grip of something, anything. He can’t do this. There’s no way he could tell Paul what he’s truly feeling. No way.

“D-Don’t, don’t—” Flake whispers harshly, jaw locking and tongue thickening. He feels like he’s about to cry. What the fuck is wrong with him? He literally feels like he simply can’t talk. So much is weighing down on him. He knows whatever he does next is going to determine everything. But it’s too much. He isn’t sure he was ready for this. He isn’t sure if he ever would be. He speaks hoarsely, voice staggered and sluggish from his unfortunate state of inebriation.

“Paul, I’m—I’m n-not sure about this.. I... I can’t d’this.”

Throat tight with frustration, Flake buries his face into Paul’s hair. He doesn’t smell good here. But that’s okay. Flake is kind of freaking out. Why is he such a pathetic loser when it came to things like this? He can’t function in situations where he’s under the microscope. When he could possibly be judged or hated by the people he loves most. He doesn’t want to risk anything. Paul is tense in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispers, voice tight. Flake feels his heart crack. Pulling away slowly from him, keeping his arms wrapped loosely around Paul, Flake looks at him with a weakened face. Paul’s expression is closed off. He’s staring at Flake with a tense jaw, a frown, and guarded eyes. Shit. That hurts. He didn’t want to sound like an asshole. Flake’s eyes burn. Watering. His eyes are watering. Ugh. He needs to get a damn grip. He ducks his head, sliding his hands away from Paul’s shoulders, to instead rest them lightly over Paul’s limp wrists, resting among their laps.

“No, l-listen,” Flake stammers, tightening his fingers around Paul’s wrists, “I’m s-such a fu-fff- _fucking_ idiot. I’m so bad at th-this. I can’t—I’m—”

He feels like he’s seriously about to cry. He brings a hand up to scrub roughly at his eyes. Paul sighs. He turns his wrist, taking Flake’s hand with his own.

“Slow down,” Paul murmurs, sounding surprisingly sober now, though unable to completely hide his slur, “Breathe for a second. It’s fine. Tell me what’s on your mind before you implode, alright? I’m not going to bite you.”

He says this with a slight tone of amusement in his voice. It does help Flake relax a bit. He obeys: he takes in a deep breath, and expels it shakily. He stares down at their hands, back bowed and head low. Surprisingly, Paul lifts his free hand to fix up Flake’s hair a little, tucking a few locks behind a big ear, and straightening the rest with gentle rakes of his fingernails—it feels nice. Flake swallows hard. He likes it. He tries to focus on that comforting touch, rather than the fear, the uncomfortable twisting of his insides.

“What are you so afraid of?” Paul murmurs, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I don’know,” Flake whispers. His eyes are burning again. “I’ve never had t’do this before. I don’know what to say.”

“Well, it should be simpler than that,” Paul says, stroking his thumb over the back of Flake’s hand, the one he held fastly. That has Flake choking up, staring down at that motion, watching his thumb sweep back and forth. His heart flutters. He feels comforted by that. He peeks up at Paul.

“Just a-ask me yes or no questions,” Flake says, somehow able to control the stutter sitting under his tongue, “Easier.”

It seems pretty stupid to do it this way, but Flake has to be realistic now… If Paul wants legitimate answers, he really has to make it easier on him. Paul grins a little. His eyes are softer now, searching his face—though they’re still a bit bloodshot, evidence of his lack of sobriety. Nodding, he drops his gaze to their hands and clears his throat.

“Did I…” he begins, softly, almost reluctantly, “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Flake squeezes Paul’s smaller hand in his own. He has to gather the courage to pan his bashful eyes upwards, to meet Paul’s gaze. He shakes his head. Paul looks relieved, letting out a deep breath. He shifts just slightly closer, until their legs are pressing together, and all Flake can smell is him, and his awful beer breath. It has him smiling a little. Paul speaks again, softly.

“Is it safe for me to assume you’re into me, too..?”

Flake bites his lip. Paul reaches out with his unoccupied hand to rest it atop Flake’s knee. Flake takes in a breath, staring at those slim fingers, curled loosely around his bony knee. It’s a chaste touch, a comforting one, but it also serves to fluster him further. He nods a little. Flake is blushing so damn hard, his face is on fire. He wants to glance up to gauge Paul’s reaction, too, but he’s unable to commit and actually look. His heart is racing. This is too much. He can’t believe he just confessed to that.

“You have feelings for me?” Paul continues, a whisper now. Flake nods immediately. Paul releases a harsh exhale of relief. He energetically, happily squeezes his knee. Then he removes the touch from his knee, bringing it to the wrist of the hand he held. He strokes up and down, a bold touch. Heat builds and builds within Flake, focused predominantly in his face and stomach.

“For a while?” Paul asks softly. Flake nods again.

“Are you scared?” Paul murmurs, voice low and a little tense. Flake nods.

“Of me?”

Flake shakes his head.

“Of… What? Being judged?”

Flake nods.

“I wouldn’t judge you,” Paul says gently, petting at his wrist, “Never.”

“There’s a l-lot,” Flake begins lowly, voice hoarse, “That can change your opinion of me. And it’s not just that. I still… D-Doubt this is real. Why—wh-why me? You could get someone so much better. Why the hell would you like me in that way? Think of all the girls you could get, Paul. And you want m _-mmm-_ me? Sure.”

“I do!” Paul snaps suddenly, startling the younger boy and earning his surprised gaze. Paul looks upset. He’s clenching Flake’s hand tightly, sitting up straighter now. He goes on, quickly, voice shaky and insistent.

“Why would I toy with you like this? You’re my best friend. Who—who else do I trust as much as you? Fucking no one. Sure, I could date a girl, but why the fuck would I want to? I don’t want to pick and choose who to date based on what society expects of me. And what my friends expect of me. Are you shitting me? Flake—I’m so sad that you would think that of me. And of yourself. Just—ugh.”

Flake frowns, watching him. Paul stops to wipe his hand down over his face, obviously frustrated. Flake feels stupid and childish for saying such a thing. Before he could even begin to open his mouth and apologize, Paul gets up on his knees, releases Flake’s stiff hand, and brings his arms around him. He has to lean over at an awkward angle to hold him, but he does so regardless. He has one hand pressing firmly into his shoulder blades, the other raised to clutch his hair. He presses his face into the side of his head, sighing.

Almost robotically, Flake raises his hands to rest them on Paul’s sides, but feels too pathetic and unworthy to even return the embrace fully. Paul speaks again, softer now.

“I think you’re great. And—and really… I don’t care if you think there are better ones for me out there. I _know_ you’re the one I want. Got it? Dumb, cute idiot. You think you can just decide for me, whether I like you or not? Well, guess what, you can’t. I like _you_. I want to hold _you_. And kiss _you_. Yeah, I said it. I’m gay as fuck for you. I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you that you’re more attractive to me than some big-titted chick.”

Paul squeezes him tighter in his arms and kisses twice over the side of his head. Flake buries his face into Paul’s shoulder and feels tears swelling in his eyes. His mouth twists into a wobbling frown, cheeks fiery, ears burning. He finally brings his arms around the smaller boy and clutches at him.

“I really want—want you in th-the same ways,” he sputters, watery and thick. God, that was pathetic. He sounds like he’s about to cry. He sniffles loudly. Paul pets at his hair and says, “I’m glad. It’s, uh, it’s fine if you need to cry. Just don’t get snot all over me, okay?”

“There’s a hair in your shirt that’s—that’s getting in m’eyes, that’s all,” Flake sputters, voice more controlled now as he regathers composure, not quite as wavered. Paul laughs. He begins to pull away, and Flake reluctantly lets him. Paul sits back on his calves and searches his face with a smile. Flake ducks his head to hide his reddened eyes and running nose. He scrubs his face into his sweater sleeve.

“God, probably should have saved this for another time. Drunk and tired,” Paul mumbles, earning a shy glance from the other boy. Paul is rubbing his hands over his face, slumped over. Dropping his hands, he gives Flake a tired smile. He looks exhausted. No longer simply drunk—just exhausted. Flake is in the same boat. He can barely keep his head up, and his eyes are heavy, a weight only made worse by the sudden bout of tears and emotion. He blinks sluggishly. Paul chuckles.

“Let’s go to bed, Flake.”

He reaches out to take his hand. Flake smiles shyly to himself as Paul stumbles up onto his feet, clutching his hand in his own. Though he’s sure it isn’t helping, considering Paul struggles to find balance—holding onto him is just a hindrance. Either way, they help each other up, and find equilibrium in their clutched hands. Shuffling quietly out of the living room, they slip into the hallway that really shouldn’t be called a hallway. More like a connecting area that leads into the bedrooms and bathroom.

“I’m sorry… For saying stupid shit,” Flake whispers into the semi-darkness, as he follows the other boy. Paul squeezes his hand. He doesn’t look back at him. He’s focused on palming at the wall in the bedroom that isn’t Aljoscha’s, trying to find the light switch. He speaks lowly, his tone a touch regretful.

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize for expressing your thoughts to me, alright? I—I shouldn’t have snapped like that. I’m just—I feel strongly about it. And, well… About you.”

He then huffs a dry laugh, amused with himself over such a silly statement. Silence hangs thickly after that. Flake doesn’t reply, though warmth courses through him, hearing such a thing. He smiles to himself secretively. Eventually, Paul finds the light switch and flips it on. Both boys squinting, they slip in past the door. Flake quietly clicks it shut behind them.

Within, they navigate past the cluttered shelves of various crap, the stacks of dusty old electronics Aljoscha had saved from years ago, insisting they may come in use one day, or have more monetary value. Amps dragged in here for they had nowhere else to be stored, pushed into a corner. Against the far wall is the small bed, swarmed with blankets and pillows.

Paul releases his hand just to climb on, albeit clumsily, dragging blankets along with his heavy, lethargic body as he made room for the other boy. Flake grins a little, watching Paul flop back with a grunt and a sprawl of his skinny legs. He pats the space beside him. Flake joyfully climbs on too, heart light and jittery, stomach no longer twisted in unbearable knots of anxiety. Now, his belly just feels warm and fluttery and happy. He’s surprised by how natural it feels when Paul coaxes him under the covers, and they arrange themselves into a position of cuddling (of course, only after Paul gently takes Flake's glasses off his face, setting them out of harm's way). This time, instead of Paul clinging to him, Flake ends up with his knee and arm draped over Paul, head upon his shoulder and chest. Paul begins stroking at his hair, only for a moment, and then grips his bicep under the quilts, squeezing it in slim fingers.

“G’night, Fl’ke,” Paul murmurs, his speech weighed down noticeably by exhaustion, so much so his tongue barely functioned enough to say even that. With eyes already closed, Flake smiles broadly to himself, giddy. Maybe it was due to the booze, maybe the relief of reciprocation, but either way, he finally has the courage to wind his arm tighter around Paul’s midsection. To hold _him_. He presses his face into the warmth of Paul. It feels so good. It feels right.

They both fall asleep swiftly, intertwined and submerged in a sea of blankets. Clinging to each other for the warmth that is hard to find in a poorly insulated bedroom of a substandard flat, during a winter in East Berlin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their changing relationship progresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They'd both be 17 and 19 at this point in time, by the way. I don't feel like addressing their birthdays in this fic, but since it takes place during the winter, they do occur. Thank you to Inchy for sharing valuable information with me! ♡ Apparently, gathered from their research, Flake started his training as a toolmaker at 16 in September, turning 17 in November, thus his classes addressed in this chapter. At this point, Paul is working part-time as a boilerman at a library in Treptow-Köpenick, where he lived, which is about an hour away by tram from Flake's place in Prenzlauer Berg.

It’s really cold today. It’s a chill that sits low in your bones. The absence of wind makes it merciful, less vicious as it could’ve been. The window of which he rests his cheek bites back, but it’s not uncomfortable enough to warrant supporting the weight of his head. He watches the passing scenery of Rummelsburg, en route to Treptow-Köpenick. Thoughts of another nature inhabit his mind, though. Gaze unseeing, he relives the night from four days ago. Laying in Paul’s arms… Feeling his warmth, how he breathed. The way his rib cage grew and fell against him, a sign of his life. Flake, hearing the slow, warm beating of his heart. Eventually, they had moved into a spooning position, for Flake had become uncomfortable. Paul clinging to him, face nuzzling into his shoulder blades. The way he went limp against him, soon to fall back asleep.

The gradual halt of the tram, the female voice of the announcer, indicating which stop they’ve come to, draws him out of his recollection. Flake glances up, seeing people step inside, claiming seats, holding onto rails with bags and purses clutched to their bodies. He refocuses on the view beyond the window. The crowd of people filtering into the tram from the station, the emptiness of the platform once all have boarded. The doors close, and the tram begins to move again with a gentle rock of the cabins. Flake sighs heavily, readjusting his thick coat around himself and refolds his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits. He returns to his place of happiness.

In the morning, Paul has never really been the most friendly. Flake knows from experience you need to give him at least half an hour, for his brain to reboot, before attempting interaction. So, when Paul unintentionally woke Flake by sitting up, stretching, and rubbing at his face lethargically, he did nothing but watch sleepily from his nest of blankets, heavy blue eyes peering past the folds of cloth. Paul sat there for a full minute, staring into nothingness with disastrous hair and a face marked by the pillows. Then he met his heavy gaze beyond the blankets and gave him a weak smile. Flake, in his state of mind lulled by sleep, had no mental capacity to worry or wonder whether things would be weird, or different between them. Paul just smiled. Reached out to touch the tip of his big nose with a fingertip, peeking out beyond the cocoon of blankets, and then got up to take a piss. Although it took effort to rise, Flake could tell, based on Paul’s curse and groan of agony—a headache. Lethargy from the hangover.

It became apparent he, too, fetched them both some water. Upon returning, Paul had Flake sit up in his bundled form against the wall and lazily slurp at his glass of water. Thankfully, Paul never turned on the light. The morning sun peering in through the drapes was enough to illuminate the room. And then it hit Flake: he had classes to attend.

From that point on, there was no time to even contemplate where he stood with Paul. No time to nurse his hangover or take a shower. Blankets thrown elsewhere, glasses grabbed, shoes pulled on, and he was out the door to brave the horrid chill of the early morning. If anything, Paul said goodbye with a kiss to the cheek, and that warmed Flake up just enough to survive the brisk walk home.

What a miserable walk that was, too. Flake could barely stay upright with such a killer headache and heavy weight upon his body. Could barely see. His nose, feet, thighs, and fingers were numb by the time he barged into his parents’ flat. He took ten minutes just to bundle up in his blankets with a hot water bottle in his arms. Then to wash his face, brush his teeth, and comb his hair—anything more would warrant tardiness.

And, somehow, four days went by, Paul a never-ending presence in his mind.

It wasn’t common to call each other for the sake of merely chatting. But that changed. The same evening Flake came home from school, exhausted and half-dead, his mother informed him Paul called, and that he insists to call him back. And so Flake happily did. And then they talked for hours. Flake had to drag the phone around the corner to hide behind the couch in the living room, its cord pulled taut. Long body curled up, he leaned against the arm rest and cradled the phone itself to his face, giggling and joking around with the other boy until his mother told him to give it a rest, to which he had no choice but to say goodnight to Paul, though he hated to do so.

Smiling to himself, Flake recalls the stupid conversations they would have. Paul had his own phone in his bedroom, so he could talk about the most outrageous bullshit without having to worry about an eavesdropping sibling, or parent. He could flirt with Flake shamelessly, while Flake sat there on the living room floor, burning up with a shy grin on his face, unable to reciprocate—though, eventually, he easily found the words to tell him to shut the hell up. He could only withstand so much before combustion occurred.

And now, he sits on the tram, uncomfortably cold, excited and nervous alike to see the other boy again. Paul’s shift is almost over, and they agreed the day before that Flake can come to pick him up, and then they are to come back to Flake’s place to hang out. Thinking about it too hard gives Flake a stomach full of butterflies. He really can’t wait any longer, but he’s also nervous for what may come.

Eventually, after nearly just a little over an hour of travel, Flake steps off the tram onto the platform and checks the time. Half an hour until Paul is off. Flake begins briskly walking off in the direction of which the library awaits, tightening his coat around himself with pink ears and a running nose. He sniffles all the way there.

The lobby of the library is warmer, more welcoming. He slips into the bathroom to check his reflection and blow his nose. He brushed his teeth before leaving home, so he won’t have to worry about that. With a bit of water, he fixes up his mid-length hair and stares at himself. His face is pink, despite the scarf he kept wound around the lower half of it. Dressed in a black jacket with a big scarf dangling from his neck, at least he looks semi-decent. Emerging from the bathroom, he checks the clock on the wall and determines it’s five minutes until Paul’s shift is over. Flake stands in the lobby, hands in the pockets of his coat, staring at the moving hands of the clock, wondering if he should just go in and find Paul’s “office”, where he sits on his butt all day. People walk by him, entering the library to seek reading material, or, God forbid, education in the written form.

“Flake!” he hears his name called soon enough, and then the rush of booted feet towards him. Looking over, eyes wide, Flake sees Paul stumbling past the tables and chairs, crossing the threshold of the library to its accompanying lobby, skidding to a stop right before him. Flake grins, heart leaping to a start. Paul is wearing a thick, woolen sweater, sleeves rolled up to the mid-way point of his forearms, a plastic bag hooked over his shoulder. His winter coat is in his arms.

“Um, hello, weirdo,” Flake greets, laughing lightly. His hands are like rocks in his coat. He’s not sure if he should offer a hug, or a handshake, or something. Paul beams. He seems to decide for him. He throws his arms around him in an abrupt, tight hold, without giving Flake the chance to reciprocate it, and then gestures to the bathroom, saying happily with a grin directed towards the taller boy, “Let me wash my hands, they’re fuckin’ filthy. One second!”

He dashes into the bathroom. Flake stands there, burning up. Should he follow him in? He just stands there awkwardly, stomach in knots. Paul’s hair was smoothed down, falling partially against his forehead, combed into a neater state around his ears, rather than the gelled disaster Flake is accustomed to. It was so cute… And made him look quite handsome. In a state of buzzing excitement, Flake watches the door of the bathroom. He’s never done this before—pick Paul up from work. So this is all new to him.

The door opens, and Paul slips out with a smile on his boyish face. He grins at Flake, which has his nose flaring and the corners of his eyes wrinkling. Flake removes his hand from his pocket and scratches behind his ear, blushing. Paul looking at him like that does well in flustering the hell out of him.

“How was work?” he asks, lamely. Paul scoffs. He steps over, shaking out his coat. He passes the plastic bag containing his things over to Flake, who takes it without question, watching Paul slip on his coat. Paul speaks as he does, saying with amusement, “Dumb question, Flake. It was work. What do you want me to say? I saw Jesus and shook his hand?”

Flake can’t help but giggle.

“I mean, you technically could, if you wanted to believe you did.”

“See Jesus? No, thanks. I bet he smells bad. They didn’t have showers back then.”

“Rivers and lakes existed…”

“They did? Ho, shit. Crazy.”

Flake laughs, shoving the plastic bag back into Paul’s arms while Paul himself giggled, much too pleased with himself. Flake shakes his head, reaching up to brush his bangs back from his eyes, saying, “Smart ass. Can’t believe I’m stuck with you for the next few hours.”

“Nah, you’ll love it,” Paul remarks with a broad grin and twinkling eyes. He reaches out to hook his hand around Flake’s arm. Flake isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s right, either way. Paul smiles knowingly, reaching up to fix Flake’s scarf around his face, and then pulls him towards the door with a little giggle and a wink towards the taller boy. Flake is already fizzling with embarrassment, and it’s only been five minutes. They slip past a small throng of people out into the cold air, Paul never breaking that contact on his arm.

The walk to the tram station is nice, almost serene. Paul is silent, and holds onto Flake’s arm fastly. Flake feels excited, anxious, and happy all at once. It’s becoming more and more apparent how much he thrives on being around Paul. Ever since they met, really. The joy he felt being with Paul, versus the lack of joy when living day to day, going to school and hating it. Simply waiting for the next time he can meet up with the others, and subsequently, meet up with Paul. He just wasn’t aware of the extent of his crush.

“Let’s grab some food,” Paul says as they pace along the sidewalk, huddled together for an imaginary additional bit of warmth. Flake hums lowly.

“Currywurst sounds good,” he says. Paul groans aloud, tipping his head back. Flake looks over with a grin.

“Hell yeah!” Paul exclaims, extending a fist gleefully. He uses Flake as leverage to give a triumphant kick of his legs, which has the other boy laughing aloud.

“You’re such a maniac today!” he exclaims, pulling Paul closer with his arm. Paul stumbles against him as they continue walking, giggling and pressing his face to his bicep. Flake feels all warm and bubbly; the cold doesn’t even bother him anymore. Paul sighs heavily and resumes walking like a normal person.

“It’s just nice seeing you again, that’s all.”

“Ew. Gay.”

Paul snickers, tugging on Flake’s arm in retaliation. Flake, blushing pleasantly, elbows him back, gently.

They find an _Imbisswagen_ parked outside of the train station, out of the way of pedestrians but still within eyesight. Considering the cold, there is already a flock of people around the food truck. Paul and Flake get in line, gazing at the pictures of food framing the truck with awe and drooling mouths. Much to Flake’s annoyance, Paul insists on paying for both of their plates. He would’ve liked to pay for his own, but Paul is stubborn when he has his mind set on something. The food comes out steaming, and smells so damn good. Flake burns his mouth solely because he refuses to let it cool. They stand hunched over a high table, bearing the cold air, swaddled in their scarves and coats, just to devour their currywurst. Paul tries to talk amongst a mouthful multiple times, though Flake can barely understand him.

Soon, the food is devoured, and they’re both satisfied with full, warm bellies. It really is the best to eat hot food on a cold day. Flake grabs a napkin from one of the dispensers and shoves it into Paul’s face, saying, “You got sauce there.”

He gestures to his own mouth. Grabbing the napkin from Flake’s outstretched hand, Paul scrubs it off with a grunt, and then balls it up and throws it into the garbage can which they stood over.

“Thanks,” Paul laughs. Flake nods. He fixes his scarf around his face, saying, “Let’s go home already, it’s so damn cold.”

“Agreed,” Paul replies, and then once Flake brings his hands back down, Paul reaches out to snatch one. Gripping his hand, squeezing, he begins tugging Flake towards the main entrance of the _Bahnhof_. They have to cut through to the other side. Flake stumbles after him, moaning about how he doesn’t feel like running after eating so much! Paul pretends he doesn’t hear him among the loud hum of conversation and footsteps within the main area of the _Bahnhof_. Flake could kick up a fuss if he wanted to, but just lets it happen. He lets Paul get away with a lot.

It seems it was the right move to make: the tram was to leave in two minutes. They manage to slip in through the doors just in time. In some sort of miracle, probably due to Paul’s buddy Jesus, there are two open seats, adjoined together. They collapse into them with a relieved groan from Flake, and a giggle from Paul. Paul shoves their linked hands between their thighs, rests his plastic bag across their laps innocently, and shifts a little closer to the other boy. Flake, a bit breathless from the running, looks over at him with an open mouth, shocked. Paul returns the glance, coyly grinning, eyes soft and flirtatious. He squeezes his hand between their thighs. Flake’s stomach does a somersault, blood rushing up to his face, and he’s sure his expression is doing a fantastic job of hiding absolutely nothing.

“Your nose is red,” Paul comments teasingly, tapping himself on the tip of the nose, “And it’s running.”

Sniffling loudly, Flake huffs and says, “It’s not my fault. You made me run in the cold. Dickass.”

“Dickass?!” Paul bursts out with a laugh, his eyebrows raising, “We wouldn’t have made it otherwise! You should be thanking me!”

“Still a dickass,” Flake says with certainty, shrugging a shoulder. Paul punches him lightly on the shoulder. Flake stealthily flips him off, hiding the finger behind his jacket, so only Paul could see. Paul laughs loudly, earning a few glances from people standing around them. Flake blushes, smiling behind his scarf.

For a while, they sit in silence. A silence weighted by the expectation of what shall come, the pressure put onto them following the last time they spent the day together. Flake finds it hard to find words when he’s thrown so easily out of how they typically function as Flake and Paul. Is he overthinking it? He’s probably overthinking it. Paul has his shoulder pressed flush to Flake’s. He never released his hand. No, instead, he readjusts his hold on it: he threads his fingers through Flake’s. The plastic bag draped across them rustles from the motion, the shifting of his arm. Flake nervously sweeps his gaze over, up from Paul’s lap, to meet his gaze. Paul is smiling. He squeezes his hand in his, and leans over to knock his forehead into his shoulder, an affectionate headbutt. Flake’s face is very warm. He’s not sure how to respond to that. He just squeezes his fingers tightly around Paul’s, and hopes that conveys enough.

“Today, I wrote a bit, you know, when I had nothing to do,” Paul says softly, propping his chin against Flake’s shoulder, a bony shoulder made softer by the padding of his coat and scarf. “Gets so damn boring. All I get to play with is a pencil and a notebook.”

“What did you write?” Flake asks, feeling his warm breaths exhaled against his cheek. He’s getting a bit overwhelmed by all this physical affection, expressed so fearlessly in public like this. He’s contemplating how rude it would be to move out from under his chin, but Paul lifts his head anyways. Flake releases the breath he didn’t realize he held. Paul hums.

“This, and that,” he muses, stroking his thumb against the side of Flake’s, which, of course, has the younger boy freezing, flustered by the intimacy of that touch. He feels like all he can do is hold his breath. Paul goes on.

“I tried drawing us—like you said. But art seems much simpler than it really is. You think you can draw the next Mona Lisa, and instead all you got are some stick figures, or enigmatic blobs that you’re convinced look at least a _little_ bit like the people you’re trying to draw.”

Flake laughs. He glances at him, grinning now, and replies, “I want to see it. Did you save it?”

Meeting his gaze, Paul is smiling himself. It lights up his face, bringing this unbearable warmth to those eyes that are enigmatic themselves. He looks at Flake with a limitless fondness, that faint smile growing into a slight grin, bearing a sliver of teeth and accentuating his laugh lines. Flake stares, his own grin softening as he sinks into those eyes. His heart is racing, being this close to Paul, and being _allowed_ to stare, being allowed to visually appreciate without fear of being called out on it. He searches Paul’s boyish face, hypnotized by his beauty, until he realizes he was saying something.

“Uh—what?” Flake says, blinking. Paul laughs.

“I said: I brought it with me, along with the shit I wrote. No use in throwing it away. Maybe something worth saving. You never know, one man’s trash could be another man’s treasure.”

“I doubt it’s trash,” Flake remarks, readjusting his fingers around Paul’s—they’re getting a bit sweaty—and continues, saying, “Even if it is, so what? Punk is meant to be trash.”

“Okay, true, you got me there.”

Flake peeks over at Paul again, and finds him leaning in closer than anticipated. Flake flinches back slightly, eyes wide, but Paul easily follows. He kisses Flake on the cheek, a quick peck. And then he stands, grabbing his plastic bag, slipping his hand from Flake’s. Flake looks up at him, gaping, while Paul grins down at him and gestures to the doors that are currently sliding open. People begin filtering out, soon to be replaced by newcomers. Flake didn’t even realize they had stopped. Glancing at the signs outside, he realizes they made it. He leaps up, and hurries out of the tram beside the other boy, sticking close to his side to avoid separation.

Shoving in through the front door to his parents’ flat is euphoric. It’s always great coming home, to a place of comfort, after traveling for close to three hours. It was so cold, Flake’s legs grew numb and he regretted not bringing a pair of gloves. Paul is breathing in sharply through his teeth, standing beside him, hopping foot to foot in a desperate attempt to warm up.

Flake kicks off his shoes. His toes feel detached from his feet, they’re so numb. Shuddering himself, he says, “Let’s move to my room. I’ll put some water on the stove—for water bottles. My mum has a couple we can use.”

“Okay, sounds good. Warmer under some blankets,” Paul agrees, leaning over at the waist to snatch off his shitty boots one at a time. Stepping past him, Flake, still wearing his winter coat, shuffles into the kitchen in socked feet and makes for the kettle. He grabs it and begins filling it. Glancing over, he sees Paul slip into his bedroom down the hall. He did clean it up a bit this morning, so he has nothing to sweat over. Setting the full kettle on a burner, he turns it up to a high setting. It’ll take a good while just for the water to reach a boiling point.

Flake briefly contemplates being a nice host and pouring Paul a drink of some kind, but Paul is the type to let you know if he wants something. If he doesn’t, then he doesn’t want anything. Thus, Flake slinks out of the kitchen and approaches his bedroom door, left slightly ajar. Peeking in, he finds Paul seated on his bed, swarmed in blankets, flipping through a notebook. His plastic bag and coat were draped over Flake’s desk chair. Paul glances up and smiles.

“Come here, I want to show you this!”

Obligingly, Flake enters, shutting the door behind himself, and walks over to crawl onto the bed. He then pauses, removing his winter coat, and throws it on the floor. Paul opens the blankets. Flake hesitates. Paul shakes them a bit, impatiently. Blushing, Flake shifts closer, close enough Paul can draw the blankets around him. Paul is already warmer. Drawn to it, desperate for his own warmth, Flake wiggles closer, until their sides are aligned. Paul pats Flake’s skinny thigh through his jeans and then shows him what he’d been looking at. Flustered, Flake has to force himself to focus on the page presented before him.

It’s obviously a drawing of the four of them. Aljoscha up front, Flake back and to the left, Paul next to him, and Alexander at his drum set. The question is whether the artwork is good or not. The answer is no. But it has Flake laughing aloud anyways, extending a hand out from the swarm of blankets to point at himself, saying, “What did you do to me?! I look so deformed!”

“I tried, alright!” Paul laughs, elbowing him. “I thought I did pretty good with Aljoscha.”

Flake has to stifle a laugh. Yeah, there are those beady eyes, and lopsided grin. The receding hairline.

“Good by which standards?” Flake replies. “Good by our standards? Sure. It’s beautiful, then, Paul.”

“Now who’s the dickass?!” Paul complains, though he’s laughing anyways. Flake grins, staring down at the drawing. He points at himself and says, “You got my hair down pretty well, actually.”

“Thanks. I like your hair,” Paul says factually, and then brings his arm up from under the blankets to predictably ruffle Flake’s mop of dark hair. Blushing, Flake ducks his head and then sags over against Paul. Paul laughs joyfully. He tosses the notebook aside and immediately latches onto this moment of physical affection: he draws both arms around Flake, lacing his fingers together to secure the embrace, and then kisses him on the side of the head. Flake feels his cheeks burning.

“Um, thanks,” he manages to mumble, shyly. Paul chuckles. He brings one hand up to fluff his hair a bit, which has Flake giggling. Embarrassed, he keeps his head low, his shoulders curled in. It gives Paul easier access to his head and face: he kisses him over his red hot ear, his temple, his cheekbone. Flake sits silently, a burning fire. He’s so overwhelmed by his flustered state, and his feelings for him. He really, really likes this attention from Paul, the loving kisses, but he also wants to run and hide. He doesn’t understand himself. Paul hums.

“Stop thinking so hard,” he murmurs, pressing his nose into Flake’s hair. “I can hear those thoughts: ‘ _Why is he kissing me? Why, why, why? This is gay! Can I kiss him, too?_ ’”

Obviously, it’s meant to be a stupid joke, but it jabs Flake in some insecure place. Flake laughs harshly and shoves him away without thinking, breaking the embrace. Catching himself on his hand, Paul pouts at him, jutting his bottom lip out. Flake, absolutely red-faced, crosses his arms and hangs his head. He knows he reacted too strongly. He shouldn’t have done that. He speaks in a stammer.

“Sorry. I-I—Sorry. You really—confuse me. I’m so bad at this, Paul. I didn’t mean to shove you away, it just—it just happened. I don’t. I don’t know how to respond.”

He feels so pathetic. God, why is he so fucking inept when it comes to this shit? Why does he always lock up when Paul expresses affection? That’s not a bad thing. He wants to encourage Flake, to bring him out of his shell, but Flake is so used to clamming up. He’s just too accustomed to being lured into situations that can be turned against him. That will end up with him humiliated, and others laughing. It just doesn’t make sense, though. He trusts Paul. He considers him his best friend. Why would Paul betray him like that? Especially in such a private setting, when he has no one else to impress by _fooling_ him?

“Didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” Paul says quietly, reaching out from under the bundled blankets to place his hand on Flake’s curled back. He rubs it up and down. Flake wants to flinch away from it, but he also appreciates it. He’s not sure how he can even feel two extremes at once. It feels almost… Patronizing. Flake is a bit irked, but tries to focus on the comforting aspect. Paul continues, softer.

“How about you try it, then? Obviously, when I do it, it becomes too much. Show me what your limits are, Flake. Can you hold me? Can you kiss me? Obviously, doesn’t have to be on the mouth. You know what I mean.”

Flake, so shocked by this, turns and looks at him, raising his head just enough his longer hair falls back to reveal his flushed face. Paul gives him a smile. He begins raking his nails gently along his back, through his sweater. Flake physically shudders at that. Woah, that feels good. The hair on Flake’s arms stand up, and his brain tingles. Paul grins, seeing him close his eyes like a contented cat.

“You like getting your back scratched?” Paul giggles, pleased. He starts doing it in bigger, sweeping circles. Flake shivers.

“Apparently,” he mumbles, hanging his head again, demurely. Paul hums.

“So… You want to try?” he asks, quietly. Flake is silent a moment. He focuses on the light drift of Paul’s nails across the long plane of his back. Feels really nice. Flake is extremely nervous, but when he’s nervous, really the only way to go about it is to either run, or face it head on. Flake isn’t about to get up and walk out the door, and he’s not going to put them in an awkward situation by saying ‘no’, so he just nods. He does want to touch Paul, too, but the fear of doing it wrong, or being judged, always lays under the surface of desire.

“Look at me then?”

Flake peeks at him. Paul gives him a faint smile—an encouraging, beckoning one. He stops scratching his back, and lets his hand drop into his lap. Flake knows it’s up to him to make the next move. So, he does what he does best: complain.

“It’s too cold,” he huffs, bundling his side of the blanket in his fists, “Let’s get under the covers.”

Thus, he turns, brings his legs up onto the bed, and moves to lay against the pillows, dragging his blankets along. Paul follows suit: he scrambles over, only to splat into the pillows, too. He grins up at Flake as Flake tucks the four blankets around the other boy, and also around himself.

Laying beside Paul, Flake decides, fuck it, and shifts closer, close enough to draw his arm around Paul, aligning his front with Paul’s side. Paul hums in contentment. He hugs Flake in return, winding an arm around him and squeezing. His hand grips Flake’s bicep, holding firmly, a gesture of affection. Flake’s insides are lighting up again, fluttering with butterflies, his stomach tingly. Resting his cheek upon the pillows, Flake realizes his face is fairly close to Paul’s, when Paul turns to look at him. Flake wonders if his breath smells like currywurst.

The frame of his glasses is digging uncomfortably into the side of his head. Flake huffs, momentarily lifting his head if only to strip them off. He twists at the waist, turning to face his side table cluttered with shit he can’t even recall putting there, and sets his glasses upon its surface clumsily. Then he splats back down against Paul and the pillows, sighing. Paul fondly laughs, regaining his hold on Flake’s skinny bicep, fingers sinking into the knitted fabric of his sweater—hugging him once more. It feels good, to be held like this.

Gazing at the elder boy, Flake searches in his steel blue eyes. Paul smiles at him softly. Man, he’s cute. Flake continues to stare, his body alight with this pleasant, buzzing sensation. A sense of euphoria. He’s actually really happy to be with Paul like this. He’s just nervous, that’s all. He simply has to get accustomed to this… Like all things, really. It’s all about comfort to him. Being uncomfortable is something he really hates.

“You going to kiss me?” Paul asks finally, drawing Flake out of his dazed thoughts. Looking at the elder boy, Flake sees him pucker up jokingly, making kissy sounds that only serve to make Flake grimace.

“That has the opposite effect that I think you’re going for,” he says, flatly. Paul laughs, ceasing his nonsense, if only to give Flake an impatient look, almost a pout. Blushing, Flake sighs. He props up on an elbow, and dives in. Paul makes a shocked noise, purely taken off-guard, when Flake smacks—no, more like _punches_ his lips into Paul’s forehead. Paul flinches back into the pillows, and then bursts out a laugh.

“Ow!” Paul exclaims, and then continues laughing, saying, “Don’t be so violent! It’s supposed to be a pleasant experience, you dork!”

“Why is your head so hard?” Flake huffs, “My lips are bruised!”

His face is on fire, heart beating away like a drum. Paul snorts. Flake is glad he can’t see his face with his mouth and nose lost in these messy locks of washed-out hair. He really needs to bleach it again.

“There’s a skull in there,” Paul replies, “They’re known to be pretty hard.”

“Oh,” Flake says, flatly, “Seems stupid to have one if it’s got nothing inside.”

“Shut the hell up!” Paul laughs sharply, reaching out to wind both arms around Flake’s skinny waist, firmly tugging him closer, earning a surprised noise from Flake and a succeeding embarrassed glance. Paul beams up at him. Flake is now laying partially atop him—his leg is hiked up across both of Paul’s, his hand extended to plant against the bed on Paul’s other side. Their chests are pressed together. Paul keeps his arms wrapped tightly around him. Flake can barely look at him, he’s so overwhelmed. Paul’s body is warm, small under his own. Paul laughs softly.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” he says, rubbing one hand up and down over his back, through his sweater. Flake is speechless, tongue heavy and laden, cheeks fiery. Paul speaks again, quieter, that grin softening to a cheeky little smile.

”You’re so cute, you know. Without your glasses, I can see your eyes even better, too. And they’re really amazing.”

Flake groans and hangs his head, hair falling to frame his face. Paul laughs while Flake protests a bit too sharply than he meant to, “I can’t take that shit anymore, Paul. Stop calling me cute!”

He says this while meeting his gaze, unintentionally pouting. That broad, blinding grin is back on Paul’s face. His nose is wrinkling with fond amusement. Flake squints down at him. Paul giggles and runs his hands up and down Flake’s back and sides, exclaiming, “You really can’t expect me to stop saying that kind of stuff! Well, there is one way to do that, you know. To really shut me up, just kiss me!”

Flake feels far too embarrassed now. He shakes his head. Paul’s grin softens to a smile. He arches a brow at him, his gaze open and beckoning. Flake huffs. He brings a hand up to scrub his eyes into his wrist, hanging his head, saying, “Can—can you turn onto your side?”

Paul looks disappointed. Before he could say anything, Flake sighs impatiently and adds, “Yes, yes, I’m going to do it, Paul. Just… Not like this.”

Realizing this, Paul smiles, and then obliges. He releases Flake, and Flake slips off him for Paul to move onto his side, showing him his back. Flake waits for him to get settled before shifting closer, until their bodies are comfortably aligned under the tangled covers. After fixing up the blankets, Flake draws a skinny arm around him. Immediately, almost naturally, Paul drapes his arm along Flake’s, hand resting atop his. That feels—quite nice. Flake pauses, touched by that. For a moment he just focuses on that touch, the warmth of it, the tenderness.

Exhaling, Flake then props up on his elbow and wiggles higher up on the bed, to obtain the optimal reach. It’s nice not being watched by the other boy. Studying Paul’s profile, unencumbered by nervousness, Flake can admire his strong nose, his flushed cheeks, the freckles, the strong line of his jaw. Those eyelashes, blinking occasionally. Waiting.

Bringing his hand up, Flake slowly runs his long fingers through the disarray of bleached hair. It seems he showered this morning—it’s soft. Brushing these locks upwards, revealed to him are Paul’s roots. The valley of skin between the parted hair, right above his ear. Leaning in, Flake kisses him there, shyly, without confidence. His nose presses into his hair. He also smells good. Faintly of hair products.

Repeatedly petting at Paul’s short hair, Flake presses his lips along the bit of bared skin behind his ear, his longer locks falling to tickle Paul’s ear itself, which has the elder boy flinching and giggling quietly. Flake tucks his hair behind a big ear, and then leans in again. Even now, his heart continues to race as he lays feather-light kisses across Paul’s temple. Down to the edge of his cheekbone.

Paul remains silent—all Flake can hear is his calm, soothing breathing. Flake likes this. He finds he likes it a lot. When he’s the one delivering these affections, without the weight of being watched, of being possibly judged. He kisses along Paul’s neck, curling his back and ducking his head to do so, his hair falling to curtain his face, to tickle along Paul’s skin. Paul shudders in his arms. Flake tightens his arm around him, and in return, Paul squeezes his wrist. He actually makes a sound when Flake’s kissing deepens from shy pecks, to a slower push along the strong tendon in his neck, less hurried, more relaxed, and passionate. Flake can feel himself slipping into a place of comfort, a place where he can freely express his desire. Paul is tense now, and Flake comes to realize he is also shaking, just slightly.

“C-Can we just cuddle a bit?” Paul asks, quietly. Flake places a final, soft kiss to Paul’s cheek, nose pressed to his temple. Face warm, Flake basks in the feeling of simple happiness, after kissing him. Of indulging in it, in the affection. The fondness he wants to show Paul, but often too afraid to. The affirming relief of Paul wanting it, and wanting him.

“Sure,” he replies, “L-Like this?”

Paul lifts his head and looks at him. His cheeks are red, his eyes a little wider, a little less composed. Flake stares, surprised. Did he really manage to fluster Paul?

“Can I spoon you?” Paul asks, his voice soft, almost demure. Flake nods, enamored by this version of the other boy. Paul moves to sit up; Flake does the same. They both turn over, and Flake rests on his side again, facing the wall. Paul immediately scoots up behind him, closely aligning their bodies. Flake could never get used to that. Paul eagerly shifting closer to press against him, seeking his warmth, his embrace. He smiles to himself while Paul noses at his longer hair, sighing happily. Then that smile fades, as Flake nervously wonders if his hair smells alright. He washed it four days ago. He doesn’t want to smell gross to Paul. He momentarily contemplates bringing it up, but decides that would ruin the moment.

Paul is holding him very tight. His arms are locked around his torso, hands gripping his sweater. Flake isn’t used to this level of enthusiasm from Paul. It’s almost needy, in a way. Flake is enjoying it, regardless. Feeling wanted. Paul continues sighing lightly into the back of his head, a ghosting of warm air against his neck. It has goosebumps spreading along Flake’s body. His heart is quick, his insides curiously warming up. His face is burning, ears red.

“You’re so cute,” Paul whispers. His voice is low, rough. Flake huffs, embarrassed. Paul laughs fondly, a deeper sound in his throat. His hands are curiously moving further down. He sneakily slips three fingers under the bottom of Flake’s sweater. He’s touching his belly now. Holy shit. Flake’s entire body bursts with excitement. And that’s when it becomes extremely apparent to him: that hard thing pressing into his ass isn’t the zipper line on Paul’s jeans, or his hip, or something like that, but his _boner_. Flake sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide. _Holy shit._

Paul keeps his fingers still, just resting on Flake’s sucked in stomach, but his hips are shifting just slightly closer. Through their layers of pants, it’s undeniable it’s his hard dick. Flake is speechless. Blood is pulsing southward in himself, and he gets an erection so quickly, it leaves him absolutely reeling. Paul’s boner is pressed firmly to his ass. Paul has a fucking hard-on for him! Completely tense in Paul’s embrace, he’s not sure how to act. Replacing the contentment is complete panic, and utter confusion. What is he supposed to do? Does he have to acknowledge it? Should he? Does Paul expect him to… Take care of it?

“Um, P-Paul,” Flake stammers. Paul immediately slips his fingers out from under his sweater, and loosens his hold around him. And then, as if only just now recognizing what he was doing, he jerks his hips back, away from Flake. Flake is burning up, everywhere. His own dick is throbbing in his jeans, incredibly excited by the knowledge, and _feeling_ , of Paul’s own arousal. That desire for _him_. The fantasies once conjured in Flake’s mind are coming to life, but he’s not exactly sure how to process that. His thoughts are wildly spinning in circles, a flurry of ' _What do I do, what do I do, is Paul going to try to have sex with me? Should we have sex this soon? I don’t know what I’m doing!'_ It feels like his brain is sizzling.

“Shit, s-sorry,” Paul laughs, his voice wavering just slightly. “Sorry, Flake. I didn’t even realize.”

Before Flake can even begin to figure out a coherent reply, they both hear a loud call of: “Christian! Are you home? Did you put this water on the stove?!”

“Oh, _shit!”_ Flake blurts, throwing the blankets off and jumping off the bed. Paul is left in the disarray of blankets as Flake throws the door open and rushes out. He forgot about the damn water! The sound of angry bubbling and the hissing of steam reaches his ears, soon followed by the image of his mother setting the kettle on an unused burner, turning off the heat with a snap of the knob. She looks at him with vague annoyance, lips pressed.

“You can’t leave the stove going like that. Gas is going to cost a fortune!”

“Sorry,” Flake sighs, ruffling his hair with both hands, frustrated for multiple reasons now. At least it helped him out of that position, and granted him a second to breathe—as much as he hates getting nagged at. He scratches at the back of his neck as he glumly approaches the bathroom to grab one of the water bottles from the cabinet. He can’t see shit. Everything’s a blur. At least he can distinguish enough to find the damn thing and go fill it with the steaming water. He’s not going back in the room to retrieve his glasses just for this, especially now that his mother is asking if Paul is going to spend the night. She must have recognized his shitty, beat up boots thrown about haphazardly by the door.

Soon enough, Flake slips back into the bedroom with a full water bottle, nice and toasty in his hands. Paul is seated up now, blankets wrapped around his crossed legs, his arms folded, eyes downcast. He looks up at his return, though he looks thoughtfully regretful. Flake hopes he doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t want to. Flake tosses the water bottle into Paul’s lap, saying, “Put it under the covers. Works best that way.”

“Duh,” Paul replies, and then gives him a slight, uncertain grin. He grabs it, shoves it under the blankets. Flake drops onto the bed again, and sits beside him. He sits close enough that there is no doubt that things are cool. Their shoulders are nearly touching. Paul holds up the blankets, an offer. Flake’s feet are freezing, so he happily accepts. The water bottle is in Paul’s lap, but he grabs it, and then leans over at the waist if only to cram it against their feet. Paul wiggles his feet closer to Flake’s. Flake bundles the blankets tight around both of their legs, and then splats back into the pillows beside the other boy.

“Ugh, so much better,” he sighs, sagging further, eyes closing. Paul giggles. They sit in silence for a full twenty seconds before Paul speaks, quieter.

“So, uh, do you want to… Try kissing? Like, on the mouth? Or just forget it? We can put on a movie, or something. Or look at the shit I wrote.”

Flake's heart lurches, a quick, steady beat, his stomach flipping with anxiety. He doesn’t like that Paul is looking at him. It’s harder to maintain composure. He stares down at his lap, tracing the pattern of the patchy quilt tucked around them with his gaze. He brings a hand up to rub a fingertip into the inner corner of his eye.

“…No, not yet,” Flake mumbles, “We can put on a movie… And look at your writing.”

“Alright, let’s do that then,” Paul agrees. Flake peeks at him. Paul doesn’t look disappointed. He isn’t smiling though, and his brow is slightly furrowed. Flake is crushed with insecurity, in that moment. Did he fuck up? Should he have said yes anyways? He doesn’t want to push Paul away by denying his advances… What if Paul lost interest in him? Flake sits there, panicking, wondering if he should say yes, he does want to kiss, just so Paul keeps liking him. As his fingers twist together in his lap, under the blankets, sweat bursts in his palms, and his throat feels tight. What should he do?

“Too warm to get up though,” Paul sighs, wiggling his toes against Flake’s foot, which has Flake glancing over nervously, dragging him out of his worrisome thoughts. Paul is grinning. Flake relaxes, slightly. He offers a weak smile in return. Searching his face, Paul’s grin softens to a pout.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” he states knowingly, reaching one hand out from under the toasty blankets to ruffle Flake’s long hair. Flake ducks his head. He knows he is. He grunts quietly, lips pressed together—he feels a little pathetic. Paul hums thoughtfully, petting at his hair now, raking soothing fingers through locks of gentle brown. He speaks, patiently.

“Stop being an idiot in there. It’s fine if you don’t want to kiss yet. I won’t ask you to if you don’t want to. Just—whenever you’re ready, tell me. I want to do it right. It’s not meant to be a guessing game, nor something you do out of obligation. Got it?”

Peeking up at him past his hair, Flake searches in his stern, ambiguously gray eyes. He nods. Paul smiles, and nods in return. He brings his hand down from Flake’s hair to gently press his curled fingers under Flake’s chin. Reflexively, it makes Flake straighten his back and lift his head again. Paul grins.

“Shitty posture,” he teases, “Trying to destroy your spine, Flake?”

“Shut up,” Flake huffs, blushing hard now, born from a mixture of nervousness, and embarrassment. Paul teasingly scrapes those knuckles against Flake’s chin, making a face at him, though his smile is shining through. Flake grins coyly, unable to help it. Paul is such a dumb, cute softie. Dumb idiot trying to make him feel better. How dare he? How dare he be so good at it?

“Dumb idiot,” Flake mumbles, vocalizing his thoughts. Paul laughs. He wiggles slightly closer, just to align their biceps and their hips. That’s reaffirming, and feels nice and warm. Flake is sufficiently comforted, his panicking thoughts soothed, self-doubt momentarily placated. A bit shy, he searches in Paul’s gaze. Paul punches his thigh lightly under the blankets as he remarks, eyes bright and amused, “I thought I was a dickass?”

Flake giggles. He nods.

“That, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flake has his first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is this so long? I don't know. I couldn't keep it short. Thanks for choosing to read this monstrosity of a chapter.
> 
> Some [gentle](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a33655d62fa4061bc63189420e93840c/0964d0b63c3b2ef0-3b/s1280x1920/caee499e0c8bbee03380538fa5b33273cbff04f3.jpg) [reminders](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5ca6051f8e30f6ce7adcc493117858ad/0af0ad462c1a475b-5d/s640x960/d1541e58aa8900185d43a9251b45499827a2e435.jpg).

A low humming sound resonates from the small amplifier. Almost a feedback. It lingers, unwavering, until it is interrupted by sound. The rustling of fabric, of fingers. Paul loudly clearing his throat into the sensitive microphone, to the point it has Flake flinching due to sheer volume alone. Seated on the couch, Flake sits cross-legged, back hunched, head hung as he focused on the tangle of cords before him. Fruitlessly attempting to figure out this grand mystery of life: how the fuck did it get so horrendously out of control? Meanwhile, Paul has been fiddling with the microphone compatible amp for a while now, and, so it seems, he’s found an input that works.

“Hello,” Paul speaks gruffly into the mic, arm tucked around his chest, elbow propped upon his forearm, head humbly lowered, “It is I… Paul.”

Grimacing, Flake lifts his head to peer at him with narrowed eyes, his mop of hair framing his boyish face. The volume _has_ to be maxed—even when perched a couple feet away, it’s just on the cusp of making Flake’s ears hurt. Paul presses the head of the microphone to his lips and begins lowly humming into it, his eyes trained on Flake’s. It’s so muffled, it comes out almost distorted—and it’s fucking loud. Flake winces, making a face at him.

“What everrr is the matter, Flakeee?” Paul lowly rumbles into the mic, elongating his words. He steps closer past the cluttered table in front of the couch, standing over the other boy now. Flake grimaces up at him. Paul goes on, a smile curling at his lips, staring into Flake’s eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, maintaining that deep, guttural voice that really just worsens the intensity of the muffled _noise_ coming from the amp, “The man you’ve all been waiting for… Give it up for… Flake!”

Reaching out, Paul presents the mic before Flake’s frowning lips.

“Fuck you,” Flake says simply, his dry voice filling the flat, and ducks his head again to refocus on the cords in his lap. Bringing the mic up to his mouth again, Paul barely speaks past his giggling, an obnoxious cacophony of sound undoubtedly disturbing the neighbors.

“There you have it! He has spoken. You heard it here, ladies and gents. As so eloquently stated, the infamous, dastardly Flake has proclaimed: fuck you! If I do say so myself, I am impressed. Simply impressed.”

A slow grin spreads across Flake’s face, until he’s laughing and Paul’s own giggling feeds into the mic. Paul begins humming and growling into the mic while Flake shakes his head, pulling one thick cord out of the bunched mess. This goes on for some time. Soon, Paul becomes bored with his own antics and drops down beside the younger boy. He speaks lowly into the mic, draping his arm along the couch behind Flake.

“Flake, how are you feeling on this lovely evening, spent with your favorite person in the whole world?”

He holds the mic out to Flake’s pouting lips. Flake reaches up to scrape his dark hair from his face and looks at Paul past the circular frames of his glasses, grinning a little meekly.

Leaning in, Flake miscalculates the distance between his mouth and the mic, and bumps his lips into it. Flinching back, a shocked noise is startled from him—Paul bursts out a laugh and drops his head down into his bicep, cracking up while Flake sputtered out a laugh himself.

“In a mindful manner, Flake,” Paul brings the mic to his mouth to murmur—and Flake definitely notices Paul pressing his lips fully to the wire cage of the mic. When the mic is angled back to him, Flake is momentarily speechless. Widened, bashful blue eyes trained on Paul’s, Flake cautiously dips his head forward to lay his lips where Paul’s once were.

“I’m feeling—Um. Good.”

His voice comes out shyer than he meant to, filling the flat. Paul is beaming at him now, eyes twinkling. He’s obviously amused by that. Flake flicks his eyes away from Paul’s, unable to hold his gaze.

“Because you’re spending time with me?” Paul asks quietly—noticeably, not into the mic. Flake peeks at him past his fringe. Paul looks hopeful, his eyebrows raised, a cute smile curling at those slim lips. Flake feels his cheeks burn. His heart is quick and fluttery in his chest. Reaching up, Flake boldly curls his fingers around Paul’s wrist, and pulls the mic closer.

“Yes,” Flake growls lowly into the mic, before pulling back with a broad grin and a nervous laugh. His face is absolutely on fire; it feels like his cheeks are pulsating just from how much blood is coursing through them. Paul beams.

“I like spending time with you too _oooo_ ,” Paul replies in a reciprocating growl, a guttural murmur into the mic that fills the flat with such horrid sound—and he doesn’t stop. He prolongs the word for as long as his breath shall last. Flake laughs aloud, head tipping back from the force of it. Paul’s elongated growl, yet to cease, becomes hitched with his giggles.

* * *

The smell of bleach is overpowering and pungent. It stings Flake’s nostrils as he stands over the cabinet sink with Paul. They peer into the mixing bowl with wary hopefulness.

“Is it meant to be this chunky?” Flake asks warily, poking at the lumpy slop with the applicator brush. Paul hums. He reaches past the sink to grab the previously discarded, empty bottle of cream developer. Turning it over above the mixing bowl, they both watch closely as a few measly drops of the developer fall from the lip of the bottle. Flake stirs it in. The mixture remains clumpy.

“Hmm,” Paul eloquently vocalizes his process of contemplation, throwing away the bottle for the second time now. Flake pokes lamely at the sad glob of bleach. Paul shrugs.

“If it works, it works,” he says, stepping around Flake to drop into the chair dragged in here from the kitchen. Flake huffs a dry laugh.

“I would rather not burn your hair off…”

“Well… Buzzed hair could be cool.”

“You’d be called a skinhead.”

“And I would beat them up. Now that that’s settled, slap it on me, Flake!”

Snorting, Flake reaches out to grab the towel previously placed on the counter. He shakes it out and drapes it nicely around Paul’s slim shoulders. He stares at the back of Paul’s head and neck while said boy spoke excitedly, saying, “It’s been a while since someone did it for me! I hate asking my sister or mum to do it… Too annoying dealing with them. But it sucks trying to see the back of your head, too.”

“Thankfully, you got me,” Flake says, wryly. Paul grins, which Flake spots in the reflection of the mirror.

“That I do!” Paul laughs, shifting to find a comfortable spot on the chair. Meanwhile, Flake puts on the gloves Paul’s mother insisted on them using. Flake doesn’t particularly care about getting bleach on his hands, but he feels inclined to oblige Paul’s mum. Paul doesn’t comment on it. Flake grabs the mixing bowl and the applicator brush. He stirs the clumpy bleach a bit, eying it distrustfully.

“If it burns too much, that’d be a good sign that we should probably wash it out,” Paul says thoughtfully, turning to look at the dubious gray blob in the bowl. Flake nudges him on the shoulder, earning a flick of wide, steel blue eyes. Flake, becoming a little impatient, speaks in a huff.

“Stop moving around so much! I’m not going to be applying it to your eyebrows, so face the other way!”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Paul says, settling back against the chair once more. Again, Flake sees the amused expression on his freckled face through the mirror. Smug idiot. Flake, a little warm in the face now, stares down at the bleach with a slight pout on his mouth. He slaps the brush against the bleach a few times, finding the wet sound funny, and then stops fucking around. After scooping up a glob, Flake sets down the bowl again, and raises his gloved hand to Paul’s head. He begins covering the dark roots with the grayish mixture, gloved fingers pinning his hair out of the way.

“Would you ever bleach your hair?” Paul asks while Flake works. Flake is careful to avoid getting bleach on Paul’s skin—gingerly applying the sloppy mixture to his roots, mindful of his ears. Focused with a knit brow, he takes a second to reply.

“Uh, maybe,” he says, “I’m fine with my hair now, though.”

“I’ll help you out when you decide to,” Paul states factually. Flake presses his lips together, shyly. He says nothing. Paul hums, prompting a response. Flake peeks up at the mirror; Paul is looking at him, smiling. Dropping his gaze, Flake nods, cheeks hot.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Great! Don’t get anyone else to do it, alright? I claim the right!”

“Alright, sure. Weirdo.”

Paul laughs. Flake begins quickly applying the bleach, realizing that the longer he subjects himself to carefully doing Paul’s hair, the more opportunity Paul has to tease him. But silence does linger for a couple minutes. Flake can sift through Paul’s faded hair in peace, thickly layering the bleach on, without using too much. He still has half of Paul’s head to cover.

“You have a habit of biting your lip when you’re focused,” Paul speaks up suddenly, earning a flick of blue eyes in the mirror, their gazes meeting, “It’s cute.”

Flake’s stomach flips, and his face immediately burns with a rush of blood.

“Sh-shut up,” Flake sighs, sagging forward with a duck of his head, hiding his red face. He licks his lips twice, nervously, as if to somehow erase that habit now that it’s been noticed. Paul laughs happily.

“What? Am I not allowed to say stuff like that if it’s in person? Only on the phone, Flake?”

“You can be so embarrassing, Paul. I-It’s like, I don’t try and embarrass you when you’re doing something like that…”

“Something like… What? Doing something cute? What do I do that’s cute to you, Flake?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

Laughing, Paul beams at Flake through the mirror, gesturing towards it encouragingly, saying, “No, come on! Let’s hear it! Embarrass me, Flake. Now’s your chance.”

Face fiery, Flake sighs harshly. He ducks his head and _really_ focuses on covering this one particular spot of roots in Paul’s hair. Paul makes a noise of disappointment and crosses his arms petulantly, Flake can see past his shoulder.

“Flake, come onnn!”

“Are you serious?” Flake asks with a nervous laugh, briefly flicking his eyes up to meet Paul’s in the mirror, though, of course, he’s unable to maintain it. He’s horrified to have seen his own reflection; his face is beet red, and he can definitely feel it, too. Paul has a grin in his voice when he speaks.

“I want to know. Be honest!”

“Well, um…” Flake begins, a wavering stammer. He takes a minute to gather himself, and focus on covering the rest of Paul’s roots. He quickly works, if only to get it done before too much time has passed and it won’t be bleached evenly. The silence hangs for so long, Paul surely must think he won’t do it.

“Uh, let me finish… Hold on,” Flake mumbles, brow knitting, lips in a pouting frown. If anything, it’ll help him stall. Paul chuckles. That serves to fluster Flake all over again, though he does his best to maintain composure. Flake checks Paul’s hair thoroughly, raking his gloved fingers throughout every lock of hair. He missed a spot; he dabs at the dwindling amount of bleach in the mixing bowl, and works it over the spot with the brush.

“There,” he sighs, straightening his back, holding his messy hands out of the way, “Should give it like, forty minutes, or something. Whatever the box said.”

“Forty, yup,” Paul agrees. “Now tell me! What do I do that’s cute to you? You can’t wimp out on me, Flake. You agreed to it!”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” Flake replies calmer than he expected from himself, whilst stepping past Paul to begin rinsing the applicator brush. Paul scoffs. He slides off the towel, dropping it onto the chair as he stood. He slaps his hands on the sink counter, and leans in much too close to Flake; he gets in his face. Flake peeks at him with narrowed eyes and thinly pressed lips. Paul stares intently into his eyes, his eyebrows raised. Flake squints back at him. Paul leans in closer and closer, eyes wide and fixated on Flake’s. Flake really tries to stay in place, for he doesn’t want to come off as cowardly, but by the time Paul’s nose presses into his, and he could feel his exhales against his face, Flake has to lean back with a shaky laugh and an exclamation of, “Paul! Seriously!”

“Yeah! Seriously!” Paul shoots back, nudging him on the side with a cheeky grin, “Tell me!”

“You’re such a bully,” Flake says, his voice laced with laughter. He turns away to nervously dispose of the used gloves.

“I’m just going to say really embarrassing shit about you, Flake, if you don’t oblige me. Like, how nice it felt when you ran your fingers through my hair. And how gentle you were! My, you could swoon any person you wanted with a touch like that! Not to mention, the way your face would get all pinched up in focus. So damn cute.”

“Oh, dear God, stop! Paul, you bastard!” Flake moans, clapping his hands over his ears, giving him the nastiest scowl he could manage, though it only comes out embarrassed. Paul laughs aloud, a radiant grin on his boyish face. With his hair in a lumpy mess, made by the bleach and Flake’s handiwork, it just looks goofy as hell. Flake has to repress a smile himself.

“And the look on your face is adorable,” Paul sighs, pressing his open hands to his cheeks, tilting his head as if he were swooning, “Trying to hide that smile from me, oh, but I see it!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Flake bursts out with a sharp laugh, shoving Paul on the shoulder. Paul giggles and looks at him, a blinding smile on his stupid face. Dumb, cute face dotted by precious freckles—and the way his eyes are squinting just from how hard he’s grinning. Paul reaches out to take Flake by the hand. Flake freezes at that, looking at Paul with utter surprise on his face.

“Tell me, Flake! I want to know,” Paul insists, squeezing his limp fingers. Flake swallows hard. He heaves a loud groaning sigh, tilting his head back, squeezing his eyes shut behind his glasses. Paul is giggling again. Flake settles his unamused scowl on him, his face burning, lips pressed. Paul shakes his hand a little, an encouragement. Huffing, Flake pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose, and then looks down at their joined hands, his heart light and fluttery.

“I-I think… I think it’s… It’s cute when you laugh. Um. And—and the way you…”

Flake trails off. His throat is tight, and he’s so damn embarrassed. He realizes he can’t talk. Paul strokes his thumb over the side of Flake’s hand. Flake _nearly_ pulls his hand away from that. God—Paul drives him up the wall. He’s so flustered from all the little things he does to him! Paul can do it so easily, but Flake can’t take these things in stride. Flake’s cheeks are on fire. His mouth is gaping like a fish, watching Paul’s thumb sweetly pet at his hand. Their fingers threaded together like this is so… Weird. Fuck.

“I can’t—talk,” Flake gasps, and then bursts out a harsh laugh. Why does he embarrass himself so much? He’s so pathetic. He brings his free arm up to hide his face in his elbow, raised hand clenched into a fist.

“I’m so stupid. Sorry, Paul,” he stammers out in a quick succession of words, a conjoined spill of self-depreciation. Paul hums lowly in dissent. He steps closer. Flake is more than shocked when a pair of lips kisses him on that fist. He lowers his arm and looks at Paul, disbelief on his face. Paul is smiling faintly, understandingly.

“Just tell me one more thing. You almost did.”

Flake exhales a deep sigh and looks at him miserably, his ears burning now as well. Paul continues smiling at him, eyes open and yearning. See, even that is cute. Flake can’t help but smile weakly. He nervously drops his gaze to Paul’s sharp collarbone, peeking out from his sweater.

“I, uh—th-think it’s cute… When… You talk. No matter the expression you make. The way you can’t stay still, it can be so annoying but—also… Cute. You show a lot of enthusiasm. Everyone listens to you. I think it’s… Endearing?”

Paul laughs. Back hunched and head low, Flake shakes his head, his longer hair, thankfully, hiding his face. Paul never ceases to catch the other boy off guard; he draws his arms around him in a hug, and kisses him on the jaw—he struggled to reach his cheek. He stinks of bleach. Flake nearly implodes. He stands stiffly in Paul’s embrace. Paul doesn’t kiss him again.

“That makes me happy,” he giggles quietly, “To know you watch me, and think of me in that way. I’m the same with you, you know. That’s part of why I really like spending time with you. I get to discover new things about you that I think are really cute, or appealing, you know? Like, the lip biting thing. You do that when you’re writing, too. I didn’t say that to embarrass you, though I guess I can see why you took it that way, earlier. I just—I wanted to tell you I think it’s cute.”

Flake is sizzling. He weakly brings his hands up to return the hug, as belated as it is now. He truly can’t believe someone like Paul is into him in such a way. He can’t fathom why. But it’s really nice… To hear something like this, even if it’s extremely embarrassing. He’s not sure how to respond. So, instead, he weakly pulls away, keeping his head low and turned to the side while Paul withdrew as well to respect his space.

“Um, should—should set the timer,” Flake mumbles, burning up, well—everywhere. He grabs for the kitchen timer lent to them by Paul’s mother. He fumbles it, and it falls to the floor with a clatter. Moving to kneel, Flake grasps the end of the counter with one hand for balance as he retrieved the stupid thing. He’s so damn flustered. His stomach is full of butterflies, and he can’t even think straight. He can’t look at Paul again as he stood once more, gripping the handle of the timer and turning it—it clicks noisily in the small, enclosed area of the bathroom. He sets it to thirty-five minutes and sets it down. It makes a low buzzing sound, an indication it is, indeed, working. Flake releases a deep exhale. He peeks over at Paul.

Paul is looking at himself in the mirror, his chin raised. He’s dragging his fingertips along the slope of his jaw.

“Man, I should shave. Itchy as hell.”

Flake stares. He did take notice of it earlier today, but as Paul brings his attention back to it, Flake is, once again, enthralled. He is already accustomed to Paul’s ability to grow facial hair, as indicated by his little beard and mustache when they first met, but the bit of scruff is different. It’s sexy on him—and Flake seldom, if ever, uses that word.

“You don’t want to keep it?” Flake asks, bewildered with the idea of wanting to get rid of a symbol of manhood. Flake himself is still looking for a hair on his own chest. Paul shrugs.

“It’s annoying, to be honest. I always pick at it without thinking, and it’s coarse. I like how I look more with a clean-shaven face, anyways.”

Paul looks up at him with a slight smile, brow cocked.

“Unless you like how I look more with facial hair. Then I’ll keep it.”

Flake immediately bursts with a heat—this time, more than just his face. He shakes his head sharply, and Paul laughs. Flake decides he just needs to sit down before he collapses. He steps past Paul and drops into the chair once occupied by said boy. Paul scrutinizes himself in the mirror a moment longer, and then reaches up to open the cabinet.

“Well, got half an hour to kill. Might as well.”

He grabs his razor, and the can of shaving cream. Hands comfortably tucked between his thighs, Flake sits with a curved back on the chair, watching in anticipation. He’s never witnessed Paul shaving before. This should be interesting. He wonders how often the other boy cuts himself. Paul begins lathering the shaving cream over his jaw, lower cheeks, and upper neck. He wets the razor thoroughly. Flake mentally writes this down, as if in study. So _that’s_ what you do…

“That looks difficult,” he comments quietly—Paul begins gently working the razor over his jawline. He’s tilting his head up, and to the side, free hand raised to pull the skin taut. Paul shrugs.

“You get used to it. Jaw can be a bitch; really the only place I sometimes nick myself.”

That’s when Flake takes notice of the couple spots of acne on Paul’s neck, right under his jaw. That surprises Flake. He can’t recall ever seeing acne on him before. Paul, of all people, getting acne? That’s, somehow, refreshing—someone as attractive as Paul can get “flaws” as well. He presses his lips together, internally contemplating if it would be rude to bring it up. He’s curious how often he gets it. Instead, he opts for another question that comes to him.

“Is it hard to shave if you have acne?” he asks curiously, continuing to watch Paul rinse the razor and tap it against the edge of the sink, only to wet it again and delicately work it over the patch of skin he already passed over. Paul groans and turns to look at him briefly, saying, “Yes! It drives me insane. Luckily, I don’t get it much on the face…”

Neither does Flake, actually, now that he thinks about it. He nods and watches Paul resume his work. For the next five minutes, it’s quiet, save for the sound of the blades sliding across his skin, Paul rinsing the razor and tapping it against the sink, and the quiet buzzing of the timer. Flake is enthralled, really. He could watch Paul groom himself forever. Although, he would definitely get bored at some point—but it’s interesting to him. And Paul is very handsome, so that helps. Watching him gingerly clear his upper lip of the stubble, Flake can’t help but think that Paul is so cool and mature. Flake has yet to really grow anything substantial on his face, yet here is Paul, who, based on appearance, looks like he has not even a drop of testosterone in his body. His size, his pretty face, his squeaky voice. But he could grow a full beard if he wanted to, Flake bets.

“You’re staring,” Paul muses with a pleased tone of voice. He turns to peek at him with a little smirk. It seems he’s done. He sets down the freshly rinsed razor and grabs the towel from the counter. He wipes his face off with it, leaving it clear of shaving cream and hair. He looks very good. Flake continues to stare, swallowing hard.

“I am,” he agrees with a little grin, before looking away and standing. Paul doesn’t say anything, though Flake is sure he’s smiling, too. Paul puts away the razor and begins splashing water over the bowl of the sink, washing away remnants of his shaving job. Flake brings his hand up to nervously scratch under his long hair at the nape of his neck, pointedly staring at the timer. He’s feeling a bit flustered.

Soon, after passing the time with conversation, cramped in this little bathroom, Flake is ushered out so Paul can take a shower. Flake sits in Paul’s bedroom, curled up on his bed, staring at the holes in a pair of Paul’s jeans, resting crumpled on the floor. During this, Flake can hear Paul’s mother talking on the phone, and his sister leaving and reentering her bedroom. The running of water cuts after five minutes. Flake feels small and particularly awkward, perched on Paul’s bed like this while his family moves about in the rest of the flat. The thought of them overhearing their less innocent conversations or exchanges makes him extremely nervous. He needs to be more aware of his volume when speaking to Paul, especially when Paul is doing his best to embarrass him.

“It came out great, Flake!” said boy announces, pushing back into the bedroom with a creak of the door. He snaps it shut behind himself, working a towel over his head. Flake watches him, waiting for the reveal. Paul pulls away the towel, exposing an explosion of freshly bleached hair. Some places show his roots, though it’s more a soft orange than a dark brown. It’s not done very well, but it’s good enough.

“You look like a chicken,” Flake replies. Paul throws the towel at him, full force. Flake lurches in shock, and bursts out a laugh. Paul has a grin on his face, Flake sees, as he rummages around in his clothing which has created an impressive mountain on his chair. He’s wearing the shirt he wore previously when Flake was bleaching his hair, but it’s soaked through in some places with water. Flake gawks when Paul strips it off by grabbing the back of the collar and hoisting it over his head. His torso is small and skinny, but not horrendously so like Flake’s. He’s got wiry muscle along his rib cage. He’s so pretty. His skin looks soft. His freckles are stark on his petite shoulders. Flake stares. Paul sifts through his shirts on the chair. He chooses one and slips it on over his head. He fixes it up on his torso while turning to face Flake with a smile.

“Thanks for your help. Now let’s lay down and listen to something! And I get to be the big spoon this time. Truth be told, I don’t care about listening to anything in particular, I just want to cuddle.”

“Shh!” Flake hisses, an eruption of embarrassment coursing through him, as always, “Keep your voice down, Paul!”

Paul actually laughs aloud, the little jerk. He drops down beside Flake on the bed, wraps an arm around his back, and kisses him on the cheek. Flake feels like he’s going to explode. After seeing Paul shirtless just a minute ago, and now he’s holding him just like that, while his sister is outside the door—Flake ducks his head and bites his tongue. Paul chuckles.

“Don’t worry about it. They don’t give a crap.”

He kisses Flake again, this time slower, more intimately. His lips are soft and warm, pressed to his heated cheek. Paul smells like his body wash. He smells good. Hands clutching at his pant legs, heart light and fluttery, Flake wants to say that he’s not comfortable with them knowing, but he holds his tongue. He does like the sound of cuddling, too, after all. Better not ruin the mood.

* * *

A successful show with Feeling B means an equally rowdy and excited afterparty. Music is playing that is not their own. Drinks are plentiful, as are the people. Flake stands off to the side, arms lazily crossed, a tightened, slightly drunk smile on his boyish face. He’s watching Aljoscha attempt to gain the attention of a particularly attractive woman. But he’s obviously completely hammered. It’s just embarrassing to witness.

Flake lost track of Paul almost immediately after the show. Paul had leapt out of the backroom where they put away their shit following a set. He rejoined the crowd, and disappeared into the group of people. Paul always was the type to partake in the dancing and the drinking, as was Flake, of course—but Flake just isn’t feeling it as much tonight. Despite already consuming his own fair share of alcohol, it just all feels off. The rewarding success of the show did improve his spirits for sure, as a fun show always does, but now his interest is drifting and he’s simply tired. Would it be lame of him to just duck out and go home?

Ah, but it’s cold outside, and he’d have to walk all the way back. Fuck that. While he is steadily making his way towards miserable, he supposes he’ll linger and follow Paul, or Aljoscha, to wherever he ends up. Unless Paul ends up with a woman, or something.

The thought darkens Flake’s mood further. It’s been a few weeks since their initial confession, but it never occurred to him that it could’ve possibly not meant as much to Paul. He could easily still be seeing other people. Fucking women. Seducing them. Putting in the effort to gain their affections. Anxiety like a hot knife slowly sinks into his stomach. Now he _wants_ to find Paul. He needs to know, to confirm, that he’s still wanted by the other boy. That Paul isn’t interested in flirting with other people.

A bit unsteady on his feet, Flake leaves the outer ring of the large room to search. People are laughing, screaming, dancing. Everyone has a drink in hand. Heart tight and brow furrowed deeply, Flake scans the crowd. He finds Paul quickly: the devilish brat is jumping around with a surprising amount of grace among four other guys—one of which is Kriening. Paul is grinning broadly, laughing up a storm. Flake watches from afar, lips pressed. Guilt floods him. Paul is just having fun. Why was he so quick to doubt him? It’s not like Paul ever promised him anything, anyways… They never established they were a _thing_ , so why would Flake expect Paul to be tethered to him, and only him?

He’s so childish. Flake really hates his tendency to fret when he has no right to, or reason to. He runs his hands up through his mop of hair, sighing heavily. Paul jumps at Kriening, grabbing at his sides, yelling something that Flake cannot distinguish, though he can hear that familiar, comforting voice, even in its drunken state. Flake steps out of the way as people pass by him, backing up into a bench pushed to the wall. He collapses onto it, finding himself sharing space with discarded jackets, thrown onto its surface in abandonment while their owners seek a greater source of joy. Flake relates to these jackets. Staring down at the pile, he takes notice of a really nice looking leather jacket. Woah—those are hard to come by. He could just grab it and walk home with it, couldn’t he? Would be better than feeling miserable. Then he would be miserable with a cool, new jacket.

Without committing to the idea, Flake retrains his gaze on the group. Paul is now leaning in close to hear one of the guys—Flake doesn’t recognize him. But he’s got his mouth a bit too close to Paul’s ear, and his arm is draped around Paul’s skinny shoulders. Paul pulls back with a laugh. The other man hands him a bottle. Paul says something sharply with a quick blur of moving lips—Flake can’t possibly begin to read what he’s saying. And then he’s bringing the drink to those cute lips and downing the rest in one long gulping. Kriening reaches out to tip up the bottom of it—Paul whips his free hand against Kriening’s arm, without faltering mid-drink. The way Paul pants heavily, chest heaving, when he lowers the bottle draws in Flake’s stare. Paul looks at that unfamiliar guy again and leans in to say something to him, a grin curling at his mouth.

His face is shiny with sweat, his lips glistening. He’s gesturing enthusiastically with his hands now, before leaning over at the waist and tossing the empty bottle into the thrashed basket at the fringe of their group—it’s full of previously discarded bottles. Flake knows he’s staring. He’s watching like a creep, actually. But he feels particularly locked to this bench. Like this is where he belongs. Unwanted. Unnecessary. Discarded. At least he has these jackets to keep him company.

No member of Feeling B should be as pathetic as he’s being right now. He stands, wobbling a bit, and grabs the leather jacket from underneath another. He throws it over his shoulder, and looks towards Paul once more. Paul is walking away with the other guys, towards a pair of women seated at a couch. It looks like they’re arranging a game, based on their gestures towards the table in the corner. Flake feels like he’s going to throw up.

He walks past all of the people, noticed by a few, his name called, a touch to his back, but he just waves them off or simply ignores. He breaks out into the cold night air, and slips on the jacket.

“Hey!”

Pausing, Flake glances over. It’s Aljoscha.

“Where are you goin’?” he demands, stumbling after him. A few people are standing outside nearby, surrounding a fire barrel. They were talking when Flake came out, but noticeably, have grown silent as Aljoscha’s appearance was made known. Flake shrugs.

“Home. I—I think I can figure out the way.”

“Why? Party’s just begun, Flake!” Aljoscha protests, shuffling through the overgrown grass to come to an unsteady stop beside him. He throws an arm around his back, comfortably so. Flake isn’t sure if he appreciates it, but he doesn’t dislike it, so he lets it be. His face is warming up due to his anxiety. He didn’t anticipate to be stopped and asked _why_.

“Don’t feel like it. Do you have a friend, or someone, who can drive me home?”

“Uh… Yeah, g’luck finding someone that’s still sober. Give me twelve hours and I ca’give you a ride.”

“I’ll just walk…” Flake says warily, watching him. Aljoscha is blinking one eye at a time. His face is really flushed. He’s drunk as hell. Aljoscha pats him firmly on the center of the shoulder blades, through the leather jacket.

“Alright, suit y’self! Be careful, alright? Don’t get mugged, or nothin’!”

Flake isn’t sure what to say here, so he says nothing. Aljoscha searches his face a moment longer, and seems unsatisfied with what he finds, or does not find for that matter, and huffs with a frustrated pout coming to his face. He shrugs, and then turns to stumble his way back into the building. Flake shoves his hands into the pockets of the leather jacket, turning back to the path he believes is in the right direction. His fingers collide with something.

He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, secured together by a rubber band in the cradle of his palm.

Sweet. Something to keep him warm when he walks home.

Walking into his bedroom has never felt quite so relieving. It’s warm. He feels alone, but in a way that is wanted. He knows this place. It’s comfortable. A security. A place to hide in and disappear.

The stolen jacket is draped over his chair. He removes his shoes, shuddering, breathing in shaky breaths through his teeth. The hour walk home sobered him up easily. Now he’s just cold, and tired. Heavy with grief of an unnecessary nature. He hates it. He wants to sleep it away from his mind. Still dressed in his pants and layered sweaters, Flake collapses onto his bed and burrows under the thick blankets. Laying on his front, arms curled close to himself, he sleepily gazes upon the leather jacket, hanging from the back of his chair.

It was wrong of him to take it. But it’s hard to find guilt within himself.

As his eyes gradually close, unable to keep them open any longer, Flake pictures the evening he spent with Paul a few days ago, after class. Paul’s sister was staying the night at a friend’s, and his parents were out. Paul insisted on building a tent right in the center of the small living room. They dragged the chairs from the kitchen, stole the sheets from the closet. Together, with music occupying their space, they fixed the sheets over the chairs and collected every single pillow found in the apartment. With only the kitchen light on, it was dim inside of the tent. They ended up lost in a sea of blankets and pillows in the complete privacy of the living room fortress. Laying together, Paul faced him on his side. Flake remained on his back, far too nervous to reciprocate the arrangement. Paul spoke about everything and nothing while tracing Flake’s facial features with a single fingertip. Following the rise and fall of his nose. Drawing out his eyebrow, following it down to his temple, along the strong ridge of his cheekbone. Mapping out the street of his jawline. Finding his lips, but without touching them. Caressing the skin right underneath, feeling the soft dip made by his pursed mouth.

Only to hide into him, in the end. No more conversation. Paul clung to his side, face hidden in his shoulder, hand limply resting against the front of his throat. The warmth of him, when unencumbered by the hindrance of conversation and the pressure of providing such a thing, is powerful. When they don’t talk, Flake feels closer than he could ever be. It’s just them; just Flake and Paul, hiding in each other.

Curled up in his bed, alone and missing him, Flake feels so sore. A yearning so powerful, he regrets every little moment that led up to his decision to leave. Even if overlooked, watching Paul be himself, watching Paul have fun and be happy, was enough to create a subliminal contentment that never made its presence known to him. Flake shouldn’t have left. He was with Paul, even if he wasn’t included. Paul was there, and now he isn’t.

Fuck. He’s so stupid.

* * *

The next day, Flake doesn’t have time to sulk and hide. It’s a Sunday, which means he has no responsibility. It’s a Sunday, which means Paul has no responsibility. He definitely should have anticipated his mother knocking on the door around noon, saying that Paul is on the phone, and he should get his butt out and into the kitchen to talk to him. Flake sighs. His mother always took Paul’s side. But he doesn’t move at first. He lays in bed for a few minutes, soaking in his consciousness and allowing his brain some time to wake up.

Unraveling himself from the cocoon of his bed, Flake rises, and feels like a very tall lump. His clothing sits on his body haphazardly, disheveled from a night of uneasy sleep. His head is foggy, and he, overall, feels heavy. He’s hungover, he thinks. Without bothering to change or brush his hair, Flake trudges out of his room. He paces into the living room, which bleeds into the kitchen. The phone is resting on its side atop the counter. He approaches, and lethargically grabs it. His mother is making some sort of drink in the kitchen, her back to him. Flake presses the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Paul,” he says.

“About time! I was about to hang up and come over just to drag your ass out of bed! What’s up? You sleep in?”

“Continue criticizing me for my sleeping choices and this conversation won’t last long,” Flake replies, his voice dry. It was meant to be a stupid joke, but it just came out wrong. He winces at himself. Yeah, he’s definitely being smooth. The regret and shame has transformed into defensiveness, he supposes. Paul pauses, and lets out a stifled laugh.

“Jeez, aren’t you grumpy! I’m glad you made it home safe last night, at least.”

Flake pauses, lips pressed. He peeks over at his mother as he mumbles, “And where did you end up?”

“Aljoscha’s van. I got too wasted… Couldn’t even walk straight.”

Flake swallows thickly. He stares down at the floor of the kitchen. Alone? Did he go and sleep in Aljoscha’s van alone? He’s relieved when his mother takes her drink (coffee, it looks like) and steps out onto the tiny balcony, shutting the door behind herself. Time for her morning reading, he supposes.

Bundling the cord in his fist, Flake walks himself and the phone into the living room. He plops down on the floor, back to the armrest. Sighing, Flake adjusts his long legs comfortably.

“Getting comfy?” Paul asks with a giggle. Flake bites his lip—damn it. Paul is winning. He’s already making him smile.

“Yeah.”

“’Cause you’re gonna talk to me for a long time, right?”

Flake snorts. Blushing, he ducks forward to knock his forehead into his raised knees.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Ohhh, ‘of course’, huh?”

Flake is made silent by his embarrassment. Sizzling, he sits there, already burning up. Paul knows how to press his buttons too damn easily. Flake still feels a bit off from last night, so he’s not sure how to reply right now. Paul exhales harshly after Flake’s lengthy silence, which tells Flake that Paul knows something’s not right.

“What happened?” Paul asks. Flake bites his lip. He lifts his head, propping it back against the couch, and stares up at the ceiling.

“I… I stole something,” Flake says, “I stole someone’s leather jacket last night. I took it, put it on, and walked home.”

“What!” Paul bursts out a sharp laugh, “Flake, oh God… That is hilarious.”

“Why?” Flake demands, laughing nervously, “Why is that funny?”

“Because you stole a leather jacket from one of our fans—supposedly!”

With a wobbly grin on his face, Flake speaks quietly, a weak suggestion that sounds laughable before he even finishes speaking it, “I could maybe… Bring it to the next show.”

“And what? Make an announcement that someone left their jacket at the last gig? Flake. Some asshole would say it’s his and then _he_ gets a new jacket.”

Pouting, Flake huffs.

“Does it at least look cool?” Paul asks, “Does it look good on you? Now you have to model it for me. I need to see this stolen jacket on my little thief.”

There he goes again. Saying shit that _sounds_ like they’re meant to be something, or that he _is_ his, but without truly meaning it. Flake frowns. His heart flutters anxiously. He hangs his head and picks at the faded knee of his jeans, pouting. His stomach is knotting up, and his chest is tight. He wants to say something, but what could he even say, without sounding like a clingy, needy brat?

“The sleeves are a little short,” he mumbles, “I don’t think that person is as tall as me.”

“Of course not!” Paul laughs aloud, “Hey, wait—maybe it would fit me!”

Flake can’t help but giggle at that. Pressing his hand to his face, he sighs and says, “Right. I took it for you in the end, I guess.”

“Sweet! Can I come over now? Let me try it on!”

Flake’s grin fades. He grinds his fingers into his eyes, internally contemplating how to go about this. Seeing Paul sounds nice, hypothetically, but he knows that if he saw him, if he looked at his face, his lips, his hands—he would just worry about who had the privilege of touching all of those things the night before. _If_ it even happened. It’s the _if_ that hurts. The possibility of it. Flake feels closed off. He can’t speak. He just sits there silently, curled up, head ducked and face pressed into his hand.

“Why did you steal the jacket?” Paul asks, quieter now, “You’ve never done that before. Was the jacket just that cool? You had to take it?”

Throat tight, Flake has to take a moment to regather his composure. He swallows thickly, exhales lowly, and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye.

“I—I don’t know,” he mumbles pathetically, “I wanted it. I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted it. I was feeling… I don’t know. Like I deserved it. And, well, I was drunk.”

Maybe he was trying to compensate for the lack of something else. Maybe he was trying to make himself feel happy in other ways, a way that he _felt_ would make a difference. But, naturally, it did not.

“It sounds like you didn’t have a good time last night,” Paul replies, his tone lower, more even, “I didn’t see you at all, either. I missed you. I wanted to hang out with you, too. Although, I wouldn’t blame you if you were sick of me… I mean… Truth be told, I was worried. When you weren’t picking up for a while, just now, I assumed I did something. And, well, you kind of vanished. Aljoscha told me you walked home.”

Wait, wait—Paul thinks _he_ is annoyed of him? Has he really been giving off that impression? That he doesn’t want to be around Paul as much anymore?

“That isn’t the case at all. I-I mean, not wanting to see you, or talk to you,” he stammers out quickly, desperate to rectify any hurt feelings Paul may have, “I always want to be around you.”

Ah, shit, he really did just go and say that? Blushing, Flake powers through it anyways, accepting any sting of embarrassment as it comes.

“You were having s-so much fun with the others, and I felt like you didn’t—didn’t need me. I’m—and I. I don’t know what… What you’re really feeling? Is this… Real? I-I mean we haven’t even kissed yet, or anything, but you say all of these really… Um, affectionate things. I don’t know what to think of it. Do you consider me your b-boy— _boyfriend_? Or, just the friend you sometimes cuddle with, that you have feelings for?”

He’s impressed he managed to be honest in such a way, much less speak it coherently. Heart hammering, Flake hides his face in his knees again, phone pressed tightly to his face, and closes his eyes. He listens to Paul’s breathing and thoughtful sigh, a burst of air as he pondered his response to this. Flake bites his lip, blushing prettily heavily now.

“I want you to be my boyfriend, I guess,” Paul murmurs lowly, as if, for once, he doesn’t want anyone to overhear. Flake’s throat tightens and his stomach lurches. He smiles secretly in the dark space made by his raised knees, his curled shoulders, his curtain of hair. Paul continues, a nervous tone in his voice, “I mean, I would ask you to be my boyfriend right now, but like you said, we haven’t even—done anything. Not that I expect you to do anything with me, but I didn’t want to just jump right into it without getting a feel for it… For what you wanted.”

Paul sighs and continues, before Flake could gather a response.

“I don’t want to just be like ‘okay, we’re together! And yay, it’s fun, and great!’ But once we kiss, or have sex, there’s no chemistry, and we hated it, and now, oops, looks like it won’t work out even though we just started dating last week. You get me? I want to test the waters before diving in.”

“So, let’s test them,” Flake says quietly, ears burning, a coy smile on his face, “I think I can stick more than just my toes in.”

Paul laughs.

“So, dipping in your toes equals… What? Just cuddling?”

Flake grins.

“A leg past the knee is hand-holding.”

“When that water reaches your dick—that’s the real test! Obviously, dick in water means kissing.”

“Would that be sex? Your dick is involved then.”

“No, sex is definitely when you’re entirely below. And swimming with your eyes open.”

That has Flake giggling with great amusement, grinning into the darkness.

“Right, because you can get infections when you do that!”

“Exactly. That’s why you got to have on goggles.”

“Ah, yes,” Flake agrees casually, “A condom.”

Paul giggles, too. He continues, voice greatly amused.

“But goggles cost money. Yet, it’s worth it—so they say.”

“So they say,” Flake hums. “Goggles are overrated.”

Paul snorts loudly.

“Water always feels nicer on your eyelids, anyways.”

Flake bursts out a sharp, eruptive laugh.

“ _What?_ Do you really think that?”

Paul bursts out laughing.

“No! I just was trying to figure out a way to make it work with this analogy.”

Flake is laughing too hard now, collapsing over onto his elbow while he cradled the phone to his smiling face.

“So, anyways,” Paul begins, giggling still, “Let’s kiss first, before trying to put a label on it. Whenever that happens. No pressure, though.”

“Next time I see you?” Flake quietly asks, sitting up straight again, his heart dancing frantically, face burning both from his laughter and the balls it took to say such a thing. Paul is silent for a moment, and then releases a breathless laugh.

“Really? You want to?”

Flake can’t repress the broad smile on his face. He ducks his head forward again, hiding his face.

“Yeah. I w-want to kiss you. I’ve, um. I’ve never done it before, so I’m sure I would be just shit at it.”

He’s said this to Paul before—that he’s never kissed a girl. It just feels pretty important to state again. Paul hums a fond laugh.

“It’ll be great. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Do you… Have a lot of experience?” Flake asks shyly, peeking out past his knees to watch the door to the balcony. He hopes his mom will stay out there for a little while longer. It would be bad timing if she came back inside. Paul snickers.

“I guess in comparison to you, yeah. But, kissing is honestly too intimate for me to do with some girl I’m just hooking up with. I’ve made out with girls, but only because I knew them well. Like, girls that are friends, you know?”

“Yeah,” Flake answers, quietly. He probably shouldn’t have asked. Now he’s thinking about this shit again, regarding Paul, and he doesn’t want to be reminded. Yet, he wants to ask. This would be the perfect time to…

He also doesn’t want to seem overbearing. Or that he _expects_ Paul to save himself for Flake, and only Flake. The images conjuring in his mind, of Paul curled up with some girl on a bed or couch, making out and letting her touch him… Flake has to swallow a few times to force down the constricting sensation in his throat.

“Did you—When was the last time? Been a while since I heard you talking about some girl…”

His voice wobbles far too much than he would’ve liked. Paul huffs a light laugh. Flake bites his lip, listening intently, heart anxious and uncomfortably tight.

“I’m sorry, did you hit your head, or something?” Paul says past a giggle, “Flake, in case you forgot, I said I’m into you. I want to kiss you, not some girl that thinks complimenting my guitar playing will get her an easy lay. Sure, there’s always that temptation for sex. But that’s just because I’m a bit repressed. I haven’t, uh, well… I haven’t done anything, or anyone. The thought of kissing or fucking anyone else is so unappealing to me…”

Paul blows out a burst of air, thoughtfully. Flake smiles to himself shyly, listening, cradling the phone to his face. Paul goes on, sincerely, with aggravated heat in his voice.

“You know, there were a few opportunities already. Girls who think I want nothing else but to fuck them, sticking their hands where they shouldn’t… Fucking gross, Flake. I got you on my mind, and how I just want to go home and see you again, but some chick touches me and tries to talk sweet to me, thinking she can just claim me like that. It was more bearable back then—before telling you how I felt, I mean. Like, whatever, just as long as I get off, who cares. Maybe we could have an interesting conversation, but honestly, most of the time, it’s just vapid bullshit. Ugh—I’m getting off track. I’m just telling you, Flake, because you seem insecure right now. I’m pent up like crazy, but the thought of giving in, of letting a girl actually drag me to another room just to fuck her—I could throw up. I just think of you. God, that’s gay as hell. But it’s true. I would rather hold your hand, or cuddle with you, or hell, even just talk to you, way more than getting my dick wet.”

He finally stops talking. He sighs. Flake struggles to repress the broad smile on his face, his cheeks pleasantly warm. He bites his lip.

“Okay. Um, I don’t know what to say… I guess I’m just that bad at hiding my feelings…”

Paul chuckles.

“You’re pretty obvious about it. I can just listen to you talk and know what’s up. Definitely have your heart on your sleeve. Your heart is on your sleeve, and your face is like an open book.”

Flake laughs.

“I got my body parts all over the place!”

“I wonder how long it would take to read your face?”

“It would be pretty long, I think.”

“Your head _is_ pretty thick—makes sense.”

“Hey!” Flake protests past a laugh, which, in turn, has Paul breaking out in laughter. Flake feels all fuzzy and warm now. He feels completely reassured, and it’s a wonderful feeling. Then the balcony door opens, and his mother slips inside. He looks up at her with wide eyes beyond the frame of his glasses, cheeks pink. She glances at him curled up on the floor in front of the couch, as he’s been arranged for hours for the last few weeks, and shakes her head with a smile. Paul begins again, speaking confidently.

“Now you got me thinking about more than just kissing, Flake,” he says wistfully, “The thought of having you under me, a-and just wanting me. Me wanting you. I can just picture the dumb, cute look on your face! I sound like a stupid horny teenager—but I guess that’s what I am. Flake, with your scandalous, seducing ways. I blame you!”

Flake buries his face in his knees and shushes Paul loudly, only to press his hand over his blushing, pinched face. Paul giggles. Flake shakes his head, sighing. Paul goes on, snickering still.

“What? You don’t want the same? Is it too soon for that, still? Well, even if it is, I can at least talk about it, right? I meant what I said! I think about kissing you often, you know. When we’re together, talking about some stupid shit, or just hanging out, doing our own thing, I look at you, and envision myself just crossing the distance to kiss you. You would look all surprised, and really cute, too, of course.”

Silently, Flake listens. His heart is fluttering, and his face is burning. It is really nice to know Paul thinks of him in that way, too… He takes in a shuddering breath and speaks in a mumble.

“Me, too. I think of stuff like that, too…”

Flake peeks over at his mother, cleaning up in the kitchen. Paul hums.

“Like what?”

“Not now,” Flake whispers. Paul makes a noise of realization.

“Gotcha. Well, I’m heading over to Aljoscha’s place as soon as we hang up. And I want you to meet me there.”

Flake blinks widely, surprised by this. That means—Paul wants to… Kiss? Today? Flake bites his lip.

“And you should bring the leather jacket!” Paul exclaims, laughing, “We could model it together. We’ll figure out who wears it better.”

“Obviously, it’ll be you,” Flake says, smiling. Paul huffs.

“Maybe. I’m not sure if I could pull it off. But you definitely could!”

“But out of the two of us, you’re the one that actually looks like a snot-nosed punk!” Flake denies, appalled. “It would suit you!”

“Anyways!” Paul interjects, laughing, “Let’s just go now. I would rather talk to you in person. You and I have nothing else going on! You should eat breakfast really quick, and then meet me. I’ll be waiting for you, Flake. Oh, and brush your teeth before you leave. ‘Cause we’ll be kissing!”

“W-What?” Flake stutters, face burning. “Are you serious? Right now?”

“Right now, Flake. But tell me: do you actually want to try kissing? Give me a yes or no, so I know what moves to make! Don’t want to go in with big smackin’ lips and you’d rather play some shit on your keyboard, or go on a walk, or whatever it is Flake does in his alone time.”

“You know what I do in my alone time!” Flake laughs.

“Yeah. Miss me, obviously.”

Flake snorts loudly.

“So what’s it going to be?” Paul insistently demands. Flake rubs at his burning cheek, thoroughly flustered now.

“Y-Yes. Duh.”

“You want to kiss until our faces fall off?”

Giggling, Flake nods a little, his voice hitching with his laughter.

“Until our mouths explode.”

“Sounds like fun! See you at Aljoscha’s. Bye, Flake!”

Then the line cuts. Flake lowers the phone from his face, smiling down at it coyly, and then immediately lurches up onto his feet. He has to quickly shower! And get changed! And eat breakfast! And brush his teeth! And pull on his shoes! And run to Aljoscha’s! Considering he’s much closer than Paul is, he wagers he’ll beat him there.

And so he does. Aljoscha doesn’t live far by foot, even. And Paul is the sucker who has to ride an hour on the tram. The entire walk there, Flake is nervously grinning to himself with damp hair, freshly showered, and dressed up in his best jeans and thickest sweater. He’s wearing the leather jacket. There are two cigarettes left in the pack included with it.

Making his way up the stairs to Aljoscha’s flat hasn’t been this exciting in a while. Flake is internalizing a great portion of his joy, though his grin is shining through despite his efforts. At the front door, he digs out his keys—there are only two keys on the ring. Such is the life when you have two homes. Flake gets the door unlocked and pushes inside. Within the confines of Aljoscha’s cluttered flat, it’s not much warmer. Flake’s nose and ears are tingling from the cold. His fingers are numb. He shuts the door behind himself, without locking it. Shuffling into the kitchen, he calls out, “Aljoscha? You home?”

He hears nothing. Typically, he’s given at least a grunt, or a quiet shuffle of blankets from the other room. So… Paul must have known Aljoscha was out then, right? Probably still in the same place he passed out in last night.

Flake spends close to half an hour by himself. He makes himself a warm drink, and lets a shot or two of vodka slip into the mix, because why not? Give himself something to loosen up with before Paul arrives. He stands against the counter, and stares down at his feet. He hasn’t removed his shoes yet—it’s too cold. But they’re prettily heavily stained from mud.

Next, he situates himself in front of Aljoscha’s TV, his filthy shoes now removed and thrown elsewhere. The station playing contains the same usual bullshit—is this the news channel? Flake isn’t sure, but it’s certainly reciting the oh-so-great Honecker’s many achievements and titles. It’s endless. Flake is wondering how many people it has successfully brainwashed into thinking this schmuck was impressive or awe-inspiring in any way, shape, or form. He sets down his steaming mug of drink and crawls over to the TV, desperate to switch to another program. As he twists the dial on the TV, buzzing through every channel, he’s completely unsurprised to find nothing interesting. He settles on one of the children’s programs. Better than being subjected to the crap touted by the “Schnitz”.

As he sits there, curled up under a plentiful amount of Aljoscha’s blankets, sucking down the vodka and malt coffee mixture, he feels himself begin to warm up. Soon enough, the mug is pointed skyward, and the contents are emptied. The fuzzy feeling of the vodka is already settling pleasantly in his gut. He only had toast and jam for breakfast, after all. Not much to soak up the alcohol.

He’s becoming a bit bored by this arrangement. But he’s lucky: he hears the pounding of feet on the stairs beyond the closed front door, and then they come to a halt only momentarily right outside. Flake turns to look over the back of the couch, just in time to see Paul burst in, flushed in the face and panting. Paul beams once his eyes land on him. He shuts the door behind himself, locks it, and kicks off his boots. Flake watches him, wide-eyed, breath caught, heart rampant.

Shit, this is really going to happen, isn’t it?

Paul is shuddering, rubbing at his arms along the sleeves of his apparently insufficient sweater as he hurries his way into the living room. He rounds the couch and plops down beside Flake. Flake holds up the blankets. Paul gratefully burrows underneath the many layers, plastering himself to Flake’s side with a pleased hum, a rumbling in his throat that sends a tingle up Flake’s spine, a burst of heat in his face.

Evidently, Paul feels, and hears, the familiar material of leather. He pulls back just to look down at Flake’s torso. Smiling faintly, Flake watches his face as the other boy begins to laugh. Paul paws at it, and exclaims, “Damn, that is cool! Whoever got robbed by Flake: shouldn’t have left this sweet piece unattended!”

“Want to try it on?” Flake asks, shouldering off the blankets.

“Hell yeah!” Paul exclaims, pulling at the collar of it. Flake swats his impatient hands away, earning himself a giggle, and then works it off himself. He passes it over. Paul stands to give them both full-view, and then pulls it on. He fixes it up on his arms, straightens it by tugging on the bottom. He feels at the lapels, the belt sewn around the hem of it.

“So cool,” he says, awed. Then he holds his arms out, hands outstretched, and meets Flake’s appreciative gaze, asking, “How do I look? Be honest.”

“Definitely cool,” Flake agrees, nodding, a grin on his boyish face. “And it fits you better than me, like I guessed.”

Paul beams radiantly. His smile is always the best—Flake loves being on the receiving end of it. The way his eyes twinkle with a certain joy. It brings his crow’s feet out, as subtle as they are. Accentuates his laugh lines further, truly bringing out the undeniable, misleading _cuteness_ of his face. There’s no other way to describe it. Endearing, maybe. The way he giggles is so Paul-like, as well. Flake watches him, enamored.

Sliding off the jacket, Paul holds it out. Giddily, Flake rises up onto his feet and takes it from him. He pulls it on. The armpits are pinched too tightly for him, and the sleeves, as stated, are too short. Paul sizes him up, and then thoughtfully rests his fingers against his chin, humming deeply. Flake stands like an awkward stork, arms limp against his sides. Paul grins.

“Leather looks good on you,” he concludes, “But it would, definitely, be better if it were a size or two bigger. Either way, you look hot.”

“Oh, my God,” Flake laughs, turning away with his hand flying up to slap over his eyes. Paul bursts out a laugh. He steps closer, reaching out to untwist the belt, saying happily, “Don’t get all coy, I mean it! I’m lucky I get you to myself. If you walked out with this on after a show, all eyes would be on you.”

That has Flake dryly laughing, settling an unamused stare on the other boy.

“Yeah, sure. For as long as it took to register it’s me. The awkward, bean-sprout of a kid that has bad posture and an overbite.”

Paul purses his lips, eyes downcast, fixated on his task of running his hands along the front of the jacket. He pulls thoughtfully on the cuffs of the sleeves, as if somehow, that will magically produce another inch or two of length. Finally, he looks up into Flake’s unhappy eyes and smiles a little. He shrugs.

“I disagree,” he says, “Those traits don’t define you. But if that’s what you think, then my word isn’t what will convince you.”

Paul is definitely right, but it’s still sore to be told that—it defies everything he’s been taught for the last few years. That he’s attractive. Or could even dream to earn someone’s affections.

Even so, Flake doesn’t like it when he feels silenced by Paul; Paul has always had it easy. He’s never had to struggle with getting a girl, or with fitting in. Flake does his best to withhold the annoyance in his voice. It comes out a little shaky, instead.

“Well, tell that to the assholes back in my classes. The girls in the l-locker rooms. The women who overlook me, to go for you or Aljoscha instead.”

“Augh, Flake, come on,” Paul scoffs, taking both of his limp hands in his own, looking up at him with a tight smile and eyes which bore disapproval, “The shit those people did or said doesn’t mean anything now. Or, at least, it shouldn’t. You only let it have meaning by saying things like that. Or convincing yourself that they were right. Well, they weren’t, and they still aren’t. Admittedly, yeah, you are right when it comes to me: I do have it easier in that regard because I happened to be born with a cute face. But it also means people patronize me, or whatever. I’ve also been teased in school about my size, my height, my _baby_ face. A lot of kids are assholes who bully others for any slight differences from the norm. Well, fuck them.”

He pauses, sighing, and then squeezes Flake’s hands in his own. Flake stares down at their joined hands, unable to meet the other boy’s gaze. He just listens. Paul goes on.

“What I also meant,” he begins, “Is that I don’t agree with those things because I love those things about you. I think your smile is beautiful, and cute as hell, overbite or not. When you slouch, that just means I can hug you better. And soon enough, it’ll make it easier to kiss you. I don’t find those things unattractive. I don’t find anything about you unattractive. The only thing I don’t like is when you say shit like that. When you try to downplay your own appeal. It’s fine if you need to get it off your chest, or whatever, if you’re bottling it up, but… It didn’t feel like that. I think you were just trying to contradict what I said, which really is not necessary. In fact, it’s stupid. Back to my point of giving what those people said more power, by letting it live in your thoughts like that.”

“I get it!” Flake groans, pulling his hands from Paul’s, tucking them under his armpits instead, the leather creaking from the motion. He ducks his head, heart tight and stomach clenched with anxiety. He wants to just back away and create distance, but he stays rooted, albeit uncomfortably so. He speaks in a mumble, candidly, “I’m—I’m s-sorry. It’s reflex, I guess. I just—I, obviously, still have to get over it. I’m not used to b-being wanted. Especially by someone as… Good-looking as you. It’s easier for me to deflect than to accept… Because I always anticipate it to be a big fucking joke. Or for you to lose interest in a week. Like every other time… With girls…”

His throat is tight. It’s hard to talk about it. A nightmare day to day. Dreading to go to school every morning, pleading for his parents to let him stay home. Walking home after being humiliated in a multitude of ways, misery like a prickling thorn in his chest, tightening into a vice in his stomach. Throwing up from anxiety and fear. He used to be a fearless, rowdy boy—wanting to simply mess around and have fun, only for that spirit to be crushed into nothing. Now he can barely talk right when he’s nervous, nor can he be himself in a new group of people unless he’s blind drunk.

His face must have given his thoughts away. Stepping closer, Paul pulls him into a tight hug, arms sliding underneath the leather jacket. He clutches him firmly, cheek to his shoulder. Flake wraps his arms around Paul in return, and buries his face into his hair. He takes in a deep, shuddering breath. Paul is warm and soft in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Paul murmurs, “I know that won’t fix it, but… Yeah. I’m sorry you went through that.”

He sounds sincere, and his voice is tight with frustration—obviously, at those who made Flake their victim. Flake feels a bit comforted by this. At least Paul isn’t trying to write it off like so many others. Like being bullied doesn’t result in genuine trauma. Like it doesn’t define you as a person. But it always will. Time does heal most wounds—but never completely. You’re always left with scar tissue. It never truly goes away.

Flake squeezes him tightly, hiding in the safety of Paul’s hair, smelling him and soaking in his warmth.

“Sorry for being a downer,” he mumbles. Flake isn’t used to such long embraces, so he pulls away prematurely; Paul almost reluctantly lets him go. Flake scratches nervously behind his ear, eyes flicking between Paul and the floor. Paul expels a long exhale and reaches out to take his other limp hand. Flake peeks at him past his mop of hair. Paul gives him a sweet smile. He brings his hand up to kiss him on the knuckles, which is extremely cheesy and has Flake cracking a dry smile, a pleasant warmth rushing up into his face.

“Let’s sit down and cuddle?” Paul suggests gently, gesturing to the mound of blankets and pillows Flake made previously. The TV is still rambling on behind Paul, too. Flake nods. Paul releases his hand and drops onto the mountain on the floor, with a sprawl of his limbs. Flake giggles. Paul beams up at him, his bleached hair an impressive, unruly explosion. Dumb, cute idiot. Taking a moment to strip off the leather jacket and toss it onto the couch, Flake lowers himself onto his knees beside him. Paul reaches out to grab him by the wrist. Without warning, he pulls him closer, and Flake has no choice but to stumble over Paul’s laying form. He accidentally knees Paul in the thigh. Paul doesn’t seem to care. He continues grinning up at him, eyes twinkling with a delight that renders Flake mute. Gazing down at the other boy, Flake’s cheeks burn, his long hair shrouding his face. Propped up on his hands, Flake is awkwardly laying against Paul, and he isn’t very comfortable. Paul reaching out to him with both hands stops him from moving away.

Those slim hands cup his cheeks. All Flake can do is gape, watching that boyish face glow with joy. Paul sweeps his hair behind his big ears. Then, abruptly, startling Flake further, he props up onto his elbows and arches up to peck him on both hot cheeks.

“You’re so cute,” he says with a laugh, dropping back onto the pillows, looking up at him in such a disgustingly tender manner, Flake could almost choke. Flake flicks his tongue between his lips, blushing pretty damn hard. He finally thaws; he warily moves onto his side, facing Paul, his front aligned with Paul’s side. Paul is quick to wrap his arm around him and pull him closer. Flake releases a shocked, flustered noise that has Paul giggling. Flake is more or less laying on top of him again; his chest is smothered to Paul’s shoulder, his leg partially overlapping Paul’s. Paul’s breathing is warm against his neck. Paul is now _nuzzling_ into his neck. Flake clenches his eyes shut. Paul hums, a low, pleased sound right by his ear—holy shit. A gush of blood shoots right into Flake’s dick. They’re so close together. Paul is now kissing over his throat and jaw.

“P-Paul!” Flake exclaims, bracing his hand against Paul’s waist. Paul pulls back, meeting his wide-eyed gaze. A cheeky grin is on his face.

“Sorry! Too fast. You turn me on too much,” Paul teases, sticking out his tongue, “It’s not my fault you’re so hot!”

“Oh, God, shut up!” Flake moans, curling his arm over his face, twisting away from the other boy, into the lump of blankets. Paul refuses to let him go; with the arm around Flake’s waist, he hoists him closer, which has Flake squirming and laughing aloud.

“Paul!” he protests past his laughter, “Let me go!”

And so he does: Paul releases his hold on him, which acted as Flake’s bearings, as well; Flake rolls off the pillows and smacks into the TV stand with a rattling thud. Paul scrambles over, stammering out past his own fit of giggles, “Shit, sorry! Are you okay?! You said let go!”

Flake warily sits up, rubbing at his shoulder. Burning up, Flake peeks at Paul, bringing both hands to his face to cup them over his cheeks, doing his best to hide it. Paul is grinning warily, kneeling beside him. Flake nods a little. Paul leans in to knock his forehead into Flake’s skinny shoulder.

“I don’t mean to get ahead of myself. I just, uh. I just want you, a lot.”

Sizzling at this point, Flake ducks his head, keeping his hands over his face. That makes him feel—conflicted. Embarrassed. But, reassured. Wanted. It feels good. But mostly embarrassing.

He doesn’t say anything, tongue-tied. Paul curls his hand around his bicep, slowly. He pulls a little bit, until Flake relents. He lowers his hands and looks at him coyly, past his locks of hair. Paul smiles at him faintly, eyes yearning.

“What about you? You still want to kiss me?”

Flake thinks back on what Paul said—that he thought he did something wrong. That Flake was annoyed by him. Flake doesn’t want to come off as uninterested. Or that he’s not into Paul as much as Paul is into him. That is so far from the truth. Flake would be appalled if Paul could possibly be more into him, than he Paul.

“Yeah,” Flake gets out a gush of air, only breaking eye contact once in a brief glance away. When he reconnects with Paul’s gaze, he forces himself to keep looking.

“I-I’ve never done th-this. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to begin. I want so much, but I’m overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by… Dipping more than just my toes in.”

Here, he does have to look away. He opts to stare down at Paul’s lap, his curled legs.

“I always want to kiss you. Your… Your lips are really… Cute. And… I know they would look even better after I kissed them.”

Paul giggles happily. He shifts a little closer, and kisses Flake on the shoulder, just peeking out past the collar of his ill-fitted sweater. Flake combusts. Paul lays his lips twice more along the skin there and says softly, “Getting me all a-flutter over here, Flake. Sheesh! Sweeping me off my feet so easily. Then kiss me, Flake. I’ll let you start.”

He lifts his head, and Flake looks at him. Their faces are close. Flake can see the faint freckles around his nose and eyes. The loose eyelash on his cheek. He can smell his body wash again, this close. He must have showered, too, before coming here. Flake’s heart is pounding. His face is fiery. He flicks his tongue between his lips. Paul’s eyes flick down, tracking that motion, a pleased little smirk spreading across his face. Flake is frozen. He sits there, his insides twisting and turning. It takes a moment, but, eventually, Paul’s yearning, steel blue eyes coaxes him.

Leaning in, Flake clumsily smashes his mouth to Paul’s. His nose jabs Paul in the cheek, and his glasses get knocked out of place. Paul makes a noise of alarm. Eyes clenched shut, Flake pushes hard, and harder, until suddenly, Paul is pulling back with a shocked laugh. Opening his eyes, Flake looks at him, hurt. Did he do it wrong?

“No, it’s okay, you just—shocked me,” Paul laughs, waving a hand, a grin on his flushed face. Flake frowns, embarrassed. Paul reaches out to gently take his glasses off his face. He folds them and turns at the waist to set them on the couch behind himself. Facing Flake again, Paul reaches out to take his hands. Flake is red in the face. He feels like he messed up. That was his first kiss, and it was so bad…

“Let me try,” Paul says, “I think you just don’t know how to kiss. And that’s fine. I’ll teach you.”

“You shouldn’t have made me do it,” Flake mumbles, becoming a bit frustrated. Paul hums, understanding. Then he squeezes his hands twice.

“I wanted you to do it at your own pace. But I think it’s okay for me to take the lead. Right?”

Flake drags his gaze up from Paul’s chest to meet his eyes. He’s watching him with the gentlest expression on his face. Oh… That’s so… He’s never seen Paul look at him like that before. Flake feels reassured, just a bit. He nods a little, shyly gazing at Paul with naked eyes and red cheeks.

Paul’s faint smile grows to a pleased grin. He strokes his thumbs over the back of Flake’s hands. Flake’s heart is still wildly racing, and his stomach is in knots. He stares at Paul’s handsome face, admiring his lips, his flushed cheeks, his eyes, his freckles. He can’t believe he’s about to kiss someone so… Well, _pretty_.

Reaching up, Paul sweeps Flake’s long hair behind his ear with delicate fingertips. Flake holds his breath. Paul searches in Flake’s eyes, but finds no lingering hesitance or uncertainty. He leans in, angles his head just slightly, and gently presses their mouths together. Flake feels a hand on his arm. It slowly eases up the sleeve of his sweater, exposing a lean forearm. That hand rests there, on that naked skin, easily. Flake is tense at first. He squeezes his eyes shut, brow furrowed. Paul’s nose is pushed into his cheek. His lips are soft, and slow. Pursing against his experimentally at first. Flake warily begins returning the motion. A shy, uncertain pursing of his mouth against Paul’s. Paul is smiling into it—Flake can feel it. Woah. That’s cute. Flake can’t help but do the same, sensing that from the other boy. It alleviates his own anxiety, just a bit, and now his own smile is curling at his mouth.

It becomes so apparent, that Paul begins giggling into it, and Flake simply can’t hold it back. They break apart just to beam at each other, laughing. Paul squeezes his forearm in his hand and doesn’t give Flake a chance to say anything. He leans back in, his other hand raising to cup his face. He pushes his mouth firmly to Flake’s. Flake closes his eyes. Paul is warm. He smells good. And he’s so tender to him. His lips are so gentle and slow, it almost hurts Flake’s heart. He’s never felt this cared for in such a way. Like all Paul wants to do is make him feel good. To make him feel comfortable.

Flake expected it to fall apart. Maybe he smelled too bad, or there was something in his teeth. He didn’t kiss well enough for Paul’s tastes. Or his big, fat nose got in the way and kept Paul at a distance purely based on physical limitations. Or, even, Aljoscha bursting through the door just to put an end to it.

None of that happens. Paul shifts closer on his knees, raises his hand from Flake’s arm to fully cradle his face in both hands. He’s beginning to kiss harder now, Flake realizes. That slow, cautious back and forth has developed into a firmer, more passionate pursing that Flake does his best to reciprocate, without forcing Paul onto his back. Flake was under the impression that the harder you pushed your mouth against the other person’s, the more it showed your enthusiasm. It seems that isn’t the way to kiss after all, despite Flake’s initial beliefs. No, this is much better, actually.

Only after Flake reaches his limits does he pull away, reluctantly breaking the kiss. Paul lowers his hands from his face. Flake ducks his head, rubbing his lips together. He peeks up at Paul past his fringe. Paul is grinning. Flake was right. His lips do look better like that; red, flushed, swollen just a bit.

“Good?” Paul asks softly, his chest heaving just slightly. Flake nods shakily. Paul reaches out to stroke at his forearm again. Flake turns his wrist, opening his hand almost by reflex. Paul doesn’t seem to notice. He’s turning away, to crawl back over the mound of blankets. Flake watches, wide-eyed and unsuspecting, like a fawn. Paul pats the space next to him.

“Come here, Flake,” he says. “Oh, but turn off the TV, first.”

Flake pauses, and then turns to the TV behind himself. It’s been talking into his ear during that entire exchange. He switches it off. Now they only hear the low noise of life coming from the connecting flats. The muffled hum of cars outside. Flake crawls over. Paul grins, patting the space beside himself. Flake occupies it, laying on his back. The lumpy mound isn’t very comfortable. Paul is rising up onto an elbow, and reaching out to gently turn his head towards him. It easily distracts him from the hard pillow digging into his spine. Flake looks up at him, breathlessly out of his depths. Paul searches his face, his grin softening to a smile.

“This okay?” he asks quietly. Flake nods a little.

“It’s good,” he mumbles. Paul giggles, obviously quite pleased by that admission. He fixes Flake’s bangs, sweeping them out of his eyes.

“Need to cut those,” he says factually. Flake grins, laughing, bearing teeth and dimples. That was random. Paul chuckles too, stroking his fingertip along the strong bridge of Flake’s nose.

“You’re so fucking cute when you laugh,” he muses, which has Flake biting his lip to quell it, though his coy smile easily shows regardless. Paul leans in to kiss him on the reddened cheek.

“Love your smile,” he murmurs, before promptly angling his head and kissing him again. Flake really tries to school his face then. He keeps his eyes open, just to see what it’s like when you do it that way. He can admire Paul’s eyelashes up close, but it’s distracting. He has to really focus on moving his mouth the proper way. So that’s why people do it with closed eyes… Well, looking at Paul’s eyelashes up close like this is nice, but he’d rather be more absorbed in the kiss itself. So, he closes his eyes. Paul’s hand is resting on his chest. That, in itself, is also distracting.

Paul’s breathing is heavier, he realizes. And the sound of their overlapping lips is so loud when the TV doesn’t mix with it. It’s wet, and an odd smacking noise that always grossed Flake out when heard on TV, or, God forbid, in person. But now… It’s just hot? His belly is warm and tingly. Paul is moving that hand on his chest. Where is it going? Oh, to the other side. Flake’s lips freeze momentarily, greatly distracted by that. His hand is heavy and warm on him. Felt through the cotton of his sweater, it’s a burning weight. That arousal in his stomach worsens. Oh, no.

Paul breaks the kiss to lay his wet lips against Flake’s chin, crossing over moles, and then up to his cheek. Flake keeps his eyes squeezed shut. Paul is breathing hard, still. And so is he. Flake tries to quell his panting, but it’s loud and obnoxious. Breathing through his nose is noisy and shuddery, too, and it doesn’t work. He has to suck it in through his mouth. Paul is now kissing at his ear and down to his throat. Shit. Flake is hard as a fucking rock in his pants, _already_. He squirms under Paul. Paul isn’t on top of him, but now his chest is leaning into him, and he’s putting his weight against him.

“Still good?” Paul asks lowly, and he definitely sounds horny. Flake never heard him talk like that before. Wow. Flake is a whirling pool of heat. He feels so overwhelmed, yet he never wants to stop. He is wary of where this might go, but he’s not afraid.

“Y-Yeah,” he manages weakly. Paul pulls back. He searches Flake’s wide-eyed, red face, and grins.

“Just like I thought,” he muses, gazing into his flustered eyes, “You look really cute under me, all worked up.”

Flake makes an embarrassed expression, unable to help it. He says nothing, beyond speechless. Paul chuckles. He leans back in to kiss him. Flake wasn’t ready. He makes a noise, hands flying up. They end up somewhere, awkwardly draped around Paul’s shoulders. Paul shifts a little closer, seemingly encouraged by that. Flake clutches nervous handfuls of his sweater. That explorative hand on his chest slinks down. Paul is kissing him passionately again. There is no more patience for the slow, careful pursing. Flake is already feeling breathless again. He can barely keep up. Paul is a little off mark; Flake feels Paul’s bottom lip against the dip of his chin, just below his mouth. Paul realizes too—he bites his bottom lip a little, which has Flake shuddering and gasping in a breath. Paul giggles, pulling back just slightly to grin against Flake, and then he kisses him fully on the lips again.

Heat unlike anything he’s felt before is a pulsing fire inside of his body. His dick is painfully hard, throbbing in the confines of his underwear. Paul is mashing his mouth upon his. Flake dazedly returns it as best he can, but he knows he’s being too sloppy and uncoordinated. Paul hums into it either way, and that hand on his chest has made it to his stomach, somehow. It begins easing up his sweater. The touch finds his belly—thankfully, the hand is warm. Flake doesn’t want him to remove his shirt. He freezes mid-kiss, worried that that’s where this is going. How does he tell Paul that, without ruining the mood?

He decides he’ll say nothing, and hope Paul gets it.

It seems he does. He doesn’t go further than that. He just rests his hand on Flake’s concave, heaving belly and breaks the kiss to give him a breather. He pulls back to look at him with hazy eyes and an open mouth as he, too, drew in air. His mouth area is flushed. It’s a good look on him. Flake stares, unaware of how red he looks in the face, too. Paul shifts just a little closer. His pelvis aligns with Flake’s hip. Flake can feel his hard-on through their pants. A firm, undeniable poking that has Flake blinking widely and looking up at him in shock. Paul is biting his bottom lip, seemingly losing that blind courage. He looks just a touch shy himself.

“I can back off if you want me to,” he says breathlessly, voice quiet, cheeks red, “I’m, uh, really hard for you, but I know that can be a bit much all at once.”

The punch of arousal that collides with Flake’s insides is alarming. His dick twitches in his pants—he can feel it, which is fucking weird. He can’t recall the last time he’s been so insanely aroused. He shakes his head, taking in a shuddering breath before speaking.

“Don’t—You don’t have to b-back off.”

Paul searches his face, smiling faintly. His hand is still on his belly. It’s distracting Flake. He almost wants it to slide just a bit further down. If Paul just reached down and groped at his dick, Flake is pretty sure he’d simply combust. He can't shake the thought, the fantasy. Flake can barely focus because of that touch on his stomach. Paul speaks again, regaining his shaky gaze.

“You want me to continue?”

Flake licks his lips nervously, a flick of a pink tongue between his shapely lips.

“Yeah. Just don’t take anything off. Uh—not that I th-think you would but, just—just in case.”

Paul nods. He leans in to kiss his forehead. Flake’s heart tingles at that. He blushes and brings his hand back from Paul’s shoulder to smother it over his burning face. Paul laughs.

“Alright. I promise I won’t. You’re hot to me either way. Just seeing you in that leather jacket made me want to jump your bones. And, it made me think of you in nothing _but_ that jacket.”

His voice drops in level, becoming huskier as he spoke. Flake makes a flustered noise and shook his head.

“Paul…” he groans miserably, twisting his head away to fully hide his face. Paul giggles.

“Sorry. I’ll stop saying shit like that. At least, for now.”

Flake drops his hand limply, looking at him with a humiliated expression, lips twisted, eyes weak and pleading. Paul laughs. He gently grabs Flake by the wrist and guides his hand back up. But this time, he smothers it to his own face, letting Flake’s fingers sprawl out into his hair. Flake gazes up at him with more alertness. Oh, that is nice. He curiously traces the shell of Paul’s ear. Paul looks down at him with warmth in his eyes, replacing the blind lust. Flake exhales shakily. That seems to convince the other boy; Paul leans back down to kiss him. Flake continues cradling the side of his head, closing his eyes.

The wet sound of their lips crushing together is honestly filthy in the silence of the flat. Flake feels dirty, hearing it. He’s _making out with Paul_ in Aljoscha’s flat! He doesn’t have the right state of mind to ponder it for long. Soon enough, he’s back to that bubbling cauldron of arousal, building and intensifying inside of him. Paul’s hand is sliding around to his side underneath his sweater. Cupping under his back, holding him close to himself while they heavily kissed. It’s such an intense touch, despite its simplicity. That sole contact is enough to completely turn Flake on. Paul’s hand on him, touching him. Wanting to touch him bare, skin on skin.

Paul shifts again. He’s moving to straddle him. He’s laying on top of him now, braced on his elbows, on his knees. Flake looks up at him with wide eyes, his own knees raising by reflex. Paul breaks the kiss to look at him with eyes laden by lust. He looks indescribable. Flake stares at him, blown away by how hypnotizing he is. Flake has never seen him so irresistible like he is now. He expected Paul to be just as much of a brat, a jester, as he is in other settings. But now he’s just intense. Maybe it’s fitting of him. Paul is the kind of guy to know what he wants, and to take it when its within reach.

Flake can barely think of this, can barely put words to his thoughts before Paul is kissing over his flushed face again. One hand raising to cradle the side of his head, fingers threaded in long, messy locks of dark brown. He presses his lips over Flake’s forehead, his brow, his cheeks, his chin, and then his mouth. He kisses him in a few firm, tender purses of his lips. Flake finds himself moaning into it now. A soft, low humming, a vibration between their mouths. Paul makes a reciprocal noise against his lips, and then pulls away with a soft laugh.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he whispers, a ghosting of his words tickling across Flake’s skin. He rests more of his weight upon him. Careful not to crush him, but letting him bear more. Flake looks up at him, panting. He brings his hands up to nervously settle them on Paul’s sides. Paul bites his lip, gazing down at him. He adjusts himself atop Flake; their legs get a little tangled, but it seems Paul finds the position he was looking for. Flake feels his hard dick again—but this time, pressed to his own.

“Fuck,” Paul laughs. “So hard for me, too…”

“Holy shit,” Flake manages to gasp, after minutes of speechlessness. Paul grins radiantly, which makes him really look like the goddamn sun, with his bleached hair in complete disarray around his boyish face. Flake gazes up at him with a nervous grin, in disbelief that they’re arranged like so. His hands coyly slide down to rest lightly on Paul’s ass, through his gray sweatpants. His ass was always pretty shapely in those sweatpants, and now, Flake can feel the slope of his cute bum under his hands. He squeezes lightly, experimentally. Maybe it’s the vodka, maybe it’s the arousal doing it to his brain, but he somehow summoned the courage to do so. And it seems Paul likes it. His face weakens in arousal and he bites his lip before saying lowly, “Grab my ass harder, if you want. That’s so hot, Flake. Shit.”

That’s a bit much. Being called out on it flusters Flake beyond words. He freezes, and curls his hands into fists against Paul’s waist. Paul lowers himself to nuzzle his nose and lips into the side of Flake’s face, against his soft hair. Flake takes in a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut.

“It’s okay,” Paul murmurs, “Don’t have to. Just know that I’m always into it.”

Flake nods a little. His heart is pounding. He’s so out of his depth. He shyly unfurls his hands and rests the broad width of them around Paul’s sides, fingers curling around to the small of his back. His waist is so small in comparison to his hands… Flake likes touching his body. He sweeps his hands up, and rests them on Paul’s shoulder blades. Paul isn’t moving, he realizes. He’s still hiding his face in Flake’s hair. Flake curiously runs his hands back down, fingers catching lightly on the folds of his sweater.

Wow, he really enjoys this. Touching Paul is so nice. He feels comforted, yet still aroused, appreciating his body so gently like this. He likes running his hands over his sides. He manages to gather the courage to shyly pull up his sweater, just enough to touch at his bare sides. He sweeps his hands up under his sweater, really hiking it up now. Paul shudders on top of him.

“Oh, God, Flake,” he laughs softly, “Touch me more. I’m going to go crazy.”

Flake is burning everywhere. He’s so dazed. He roams his outstretched hand over Paul’s shuddering back. His fingers map over the warm, soft expanse of his back. Sliding up far under his sweater, to touch at his flexing shoulder blades.

Flake freezes when Paul begins rutting against him. He’s _grinding_ against him, moving in a way that stimulates both himself and Flake. Flake moans, shocked. Paul collapses onto him. He rolls his hips against Flake’s, a heated, firm pressure that has pleasure shooting up and down Flake’s overheated body. Flake’s hands remain still on Paul’s back. He can feel the muscles flexing, working, as he rocked down against him. Flake tries to hold back his noises, but he fails spectacularly.

It feels so good. He moans openly, knees raising further, entrapping Paul’s body against his own. Paul is clutching at him. Gripping him by the shoulders, keeping him rooted as he rubbed against him. Flake is shaking. Just this simple pressure, the conjoined heat of their bodies, is enough for him. The weight of Paul on him. Paul wanting him so bad like this, enough to _hump him_. He’s going to come fast. This is insane. And he’s sweating so much. Under his arms, in his pants—even some of his hair is clinging to his neck and face.

“Fuck,” Paul gasps suddenly, and then slows a bit, earning a weak glance from Flake. Paul is blinking widely, his mouth hanging open, his boyish face flushed a deep red. It’s cute, actually. Paul’s wide eyes train on his. He flicks his tongue between his lips, and stammers out, “I-Is this okay? I’m getting ahead of myself. Tell me if I’m going too far.”

Flake bites his lip, eyes bashful. With his hands remaining under Paul’s sweater, outstretched across his back, Flake speaks shakily, evidently just as flustered as the other boy.

“D-Don’t stop.”

That’s all he can say. Paul is looking down at him with awe on his face, for some reason. Flake shyly arches his hips up into him, pushing his clothed dick against Paul’s. He drops his head back into the pillows, closing his eyes, mouth open. Paul groans in disbelief. Flake is surprised when Paul leans down to begin kissing over his jaw and neck, but he finds he likes it even more now. Paul begins thrusting again. A firm, hard roll of his hips that has their groins grinding together, erections felt through layers of clothing. Flake is amazed. He can feel Paul’s hard dick so easily, pressed snugly against him. He’s a mess himself; he can feel wetness in his underwear. And he’s sweaty, and panting, and so close—

Paul is pinning him down now, entirely. He is sparing Flake none of his weight. Wrapping his arms around Flake, face buried in his throat, he begins grinding hard and fast against him. The arrangement is stupidly clumsy and at best, enough. And so it is: Flake is lost in the haze of how good it feels. The heat, the winding pleasure, intensifies, intensifies, until he’s gasping and moaning and straining up under Paul, digging the heels of his feet into the pillows, and pushing up into it. Paul is huffing harshly against his throat. He’s saying something breathlessly, but, in the sauna of his mind, Flake only picks out his name, and _süß_. He’s overcome with the white hot, burning static of his orgasm. He grunts loudly, a sound that will surely embarrass him when he returns to a coherent state of mind. Paul is clutching at him tightly, holding him so close, it makes it harder to breathe through it. He’s groaning himself. Flake is shaking hard. He goes limp against the pillows, the tension locked throughout his limbs dissipating.

“Shit, Paul,” he manages to gasp out. Paul collapses atop him. He’s small, so it’s not that bad—bearing his weight. They’re panting together, bodies struggling for recuperation. Paul laughs breathlessly into his collarbone. Flake becomes dimly aware that the collar of his sweater is digging uncomfortably into his neck; the other end is down to his bicep. Stupid oversized sweater. He wiggles under Paul; it’s bothering him enough that he has to fix it _now_ , otherwise it will wear a valley into his damn neck. Paul takes a second to gather the strength to slide off of him. He splats beside him on the mound of blankets. Flake sits up, a little out of it. He scrapes his hair back from his face and fixes his sweater.

Then the wet, warm moistness in his boxers becomes horrendously apparent. Ew.

He makes a face. Paul laughs. Flake looks over. Paul is propping up on his elbows now, looking at him with a warm, pleased smile on his face. His hair is wild, and his skin is flushed, dotted with sweat in places.

“Let’s go clean up,” he suggests. Flake gratefully accepts the offer. He scrambles up onto his feet and makes for the bathroom. Paul calls his name with a laugh, and shoots up after him. Flake beats him easily, and is already snatching one of the abandoned towels from the floor.

“Not fair, your legs are longer,” Paul complains uselessly—there was never a competition. Flake is still feeling so out of his depth, he has no clue what to say now. He just keeps his head low, gets his pants open, and shows Paul his back as he begins cleaning up. Paul is silent behind him as he does the same. Probably sensing Flake’s uncertainty. Flake feels like this is a bit weird. Cleaning up their underwear after humping each other like idiots. Certainly, that could’ve been done with more couth, or grace, or something like that. Is that how people typically start out, with sex?

Was that sex? Flake swallows hard. Did he just have sex with Paul?

Flake realizes Paul is finishing up, based on the sound of adjusted elastic behind him. He quickly scrubs at the helpless wetness in his boxers and drops the towel, before redoing his jeans. Well, whatever. Good enough. He looks over to see Paul making a face while wiping his hands off on the hand towel by the sink.

Flake can’t help but laugh, earning a surprised glance from blue eyes. Flake gestures to the towel, laughing still.

“You’re really going to make Aljoscha dry his hands on that?”

Paul pauses, looks back at the hand towel, and shrugs. He turns to Flake, and takes his hand. Flake pauses, and then he’s pulled out of the bathroom. Paul guides him back to the living room. Flake hurries after him, unable to really determine where they’re to go from here. Only Paul knows. Paul drops onto the couch, shoves the leather jacket onto the floor, and pats the spot beside him, sweetly looking up at him with a smile. Flake can do that. This is simple. He plops down beside the other boy. Paul immediately scoots closer, and Flake’s shyness rises steadily. What do they do now?

“So, tell me what’s on your mind,” Paul says simply, resting his head against Flake’s shoulder and chest, bringing his legs up to prop his knees against Flake’s thigh. Flake hesitates, heat in his face.

“Um, is that normal?” he manages to ask, his voice soft and insecure. Paul is staring at their reflection in the black TV screen. Flake watches it, too. It’s nice seeing them curled up like this, actually. But Flake notices how stiff he is. And he’s not holding Paul back. So, he brings his arms around the smaller boy, and ducks his head to press his nose and mouth to that mess of bleached hair. Paul hums thoughtfully.

“What do you mean? The progression?”

“Yeah… We had our first kiss… And then…”

“There’s no right way to do it,” Paul answers, turning his head to nuzzle into his chest, shifting a little closer to really burrow into him. Flake blushes, smiling shyly. He holds him tighter, hand curled around his lean bicep. Paul goes on, voice low and soft.

“I probably pushed it. Sorry about that. I got ahead of myself. I really liked kissing you, and it turned me on… A lot. Obviously.”

“I-I don’t regret it,” Flake mumbles, “I enjoyed it, um, I’m just—Did we have sex? Was that sex?”

“If it felt like sex to you,” Paul begins in an exhale of speech, sighing, “It was sex, Flake. But for me, it wasn’t sex.”

“But we both… Got off? Does that not mean sex?”

Paul is silent for a moment. Flake listens to his breathing. Feels it against himself. It’s nice. Paul speaks after a moment of thought.

“For me, sex means more than just humping each other. We didn’t touch each other’s dicks. I didn’t see you naked. Plus, it’s like, there’s a word for blowing someone, right? ‘Oral sex’. And then fucking someone. ‘Penetrative sex’. There’s no ‘dry-humping sex’. I think it was just us fooling around. It’s like, if we jerk off in the same room, it’s not sex. You know? It’s just… Complicated, I guess. Like I said, it depends on if it felt like sex to you.”

“If it wasn’t sex for you, then it wasn’t sex,” Flake says quietly, “It can’t be sex for just one person.”

Paul laughs softly.

“It can be if one of us is delusional.”

Flake smiles weakly. Paul pulls back to look at him, a growing grin on his face. Surprising Flake further, Paul plants a hand against his thigh and then arches up to peck him. Flake freezes, staring at him when he pulls back. Paul looks pleased, his smile radiantly amused.

“Kiss me back, okay? I’m going to do it again. Be ready.”

Flake pauses, and then laughs. He nods, blushing. He readies himself. He’s ready. Paul searches his face, fondly smiling, his eyes doing that twinkly thing again. He arches back up, though he’s slower this time. He gently presses his smiling lips to Flake’s. Woah. Why does that feel different than last time? Flake is alarmed by how _this_ kiss feels more tender, somehow. More meaningful, even if Paul was just as gentle when they first kissed. Flake purses his mouth against Paul’s in return, softly, thoughtfully. Paul chuckles fondly, and pecks him again, before dropping back down to rest his head against his chest. Flake feels warm and fuzzy all over. Smiling to himself, Flake ducks down to hide his face in Paul’s hair again.

“That kiss was a different kiss,” Paul murmurs, “Our first kiss was exciting, and new. That one just meant ‘I really like you’. Just to clarify, since you really seem to need help with understanding a lot of this stuff.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Flake laughs into his hair, an embarrassed heat bursting into his grinning face, “Mr. Experienced. Maybe I don’t _want_ to touch your dick, after all. Could be crawling with God knows what.”

Paul laughs aloud, reeling back from Flake to look at him, an appalled, open-mouthed grin on his face. He smacks him (gently) on the bony shoulder. Flake flinches, bursting out with a laugh, shielding himself. Paul grabs fistfuls of his sweater, shakes him a bit, and loudly says, “How am _I_ the asshole?! Flake! I swear my dick is untainted!”

“I can’t confirm nor deny that! Who knows, Paul! Only God does!”

“You want to take a real close look, Flake? Find out for yourself?!”

Flake makes a face and sticks his tongue out in mock disgust. Paul laughs loudly and shoves him over. Flake falls back, cracking up with his arms folded over his chest, a broad grin on his face—he’s laughing so hard, he can’t even keep his eyes open. Paul shoves at his legs too, just for good measure, though he’s laughing, too.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
